I dare you to ride along with the masked passengers on this journey through a swamp with a destination perfectly designed for serial killers on a retreat.
The Ferryman guided the gondola along a watery path, only he knew the secrets to, as it transported a half-dozen specially chosen masked passengers to an exclusive event. Though each eyed him with suspicion, they appeared confident he would get them to their destination. They had to believe that because he was their only means of travel.
This sort would never admit they were at his mercy. They would talk instead as if the opposite were true, but he saw the questions in their eyes. The Ferryman always saw the questions mirrored in each set of eyes exactly thirty minutes in. That was when the narrow boat passed the last shack squatting in the shadows of the densely wooded shore, casting its grudging light from tiny windows.
The rickety dwelling belonged to Old Maeve, and even if one of his passengers suddenly had a revelation and begged to be let off here, they would find no help, only the same hospitality that waited for them at the end of the line. But no passenger ever had a clue this early, which was why the Ferryman’s job never ceased to be entertaining.
It was the moment when Maeve’s lights winked out, obscured by the dense canopy of moss-laden cypress, the vegetation also serving to shroud the stars like a falling curtain, that the nervous chatter started. He waited now for the dawning realization that a lantern full of lightning bugs hanging from the bow and a sketchy crescent moon were all that remained to show them the way.
He could see the worry lines etched across their foreheads, but none of them ever admitted to being scared any more than they would own up to the fact they needed him. After all, they were in the business of causing terror.
The Ferryman could guess with precision who would be the first to speak, and on cue, it was the chubby face under a fox mask who aimed a question at the skinny Humpty Dumpty.
“I heard we had to have no less than twenty victims dead and buried in well-hidden places to get an invitation to this shindig. I’ve surpassed that. How about you?”
The mask mix-up was a typical prank his employer played on a random passenger during each trip. It added to the fun and, more importantly, broke the monotony for the Ferryman—an employment perk, you might say.
Instead of answering, Humpty Dumpty, whose mask was too big for his pointy face, lifted his bony butt from the seat and swung around to sit on the other side of the gondola. Exactly the response the Ferryman had predicted. He was satisfied with his perks, but it would be nice if his passengers would occasionally surprise him.
“I’ve heard lots of things about these parties,” said the lone female with a cat mask who answered the fat fox. “The final feast is said to be unsurpassed for its sumptuousness. But that’s not why I came. There’s a rumor that one of you is the famous Crescent Moon Vampire. I wonder if you will be able to control your urges this weekend.” She parted her collar and stretched her pale neck like an offering.
No one took her up on it or even flinched a muscle.
After a brief silence, the fox let out a nervous snort, and the narrow mask that exposed more of the doughy face than anyone needed to see fluttered so that he had to grab it and adjust the strings.
“I don’t know about a vampire,” rumbled the passenger in the snake mask who’d been keeping to the shadows. “But you’re a brave one to travel with men who, if they’re like me, love to hate women in creative and painful ways. Still, you must have doled out your own hate to be here. Sticking your neck out is a bit risky, don’t you think?”
“You pretty reptile,” Cat Woman drawled, “there’s no hate involved. I love to love men. It’s not my fault when they fail to survive it.”
“If she is who we think she is, gentlemen, watch your backs, or more to the point, your willies,” said one of the two identical gray-haired demons.
Her eyes shone through the mask, just like a cat’s should.
The Ferryman was also pleased to have twins aboard. Passengers who murdered together were, at the very least, uncommon.
The fox snorted again before he could stop himself, a nervous mannerism the Ferryman always enjoyed and expected from at least one of them. “What’s with the Ferryman?” the fox said, shrugging to play down his worry. “That crow mask looks like he stuck a dead bird on his face. And how about those robes? Doesn’t he know it’s sweltering in this bog? And where is his sickle?”
Timing it perfectly so that the crescent moon peeked through the canopy and glinted off the curved blade, the Ferryman produced the required prop with a swoosh of his robes and the ringing of steel. He settled the staff at his feet and grinned beneath his mask as stifled gasps rippled along the gondola—another perk, eliciting the maximum effect with his masterful reveal.
“We’re all overdressed. It’s a requirement, is it not?” The twin demon said, ignoring the dire implications and returning to the party discussion. He held up a piece of embossed paper to the feeble light.
“It says, ‘To be allowed onto Isla la Sombra, you must be in possession of your invitation. You should be dressed in proper attire, wearing the masks provided to you, and prepared to be filled with fine foods and wine. You will also be wowed by the tricks of the trade and the experts in your field. Should you succeed through every challenge, you will partake in a special feast.’ It is a strange mix of formality and mystery, to be sure,” he concluded.
“The words on their own would not cause concern,” his brother chimed in. “But now that we’re deep into this watery maze, traveling in a gondola that seems out of place and time and operated by a silent, robed figure who should be plying the River Styx, I’m looking at the invitation with new eyes.”
“Like any good party,” Cat Woman said, “it is merely the host tantalizing us with the amenities. After all, types like us go to great lengths to avoid exposure. But I, for one, could not turn down the offer to immerse myself in the ‘tricks of the trade’ or meet the most notorious guest speakers from our ranks. Isn’t the underground chatter why you all ventured out of your nests?”
A bumpy outline rippled through the duckweed, and the Ferryman waited. Sure enough, the bleats of fear that followed could have been cues in a movie script as each passenger spotted Douglas.
“Shit! Look at the size of that alligator! Um… Ferryman, may I call you Ferryman? I’ll take your silence as a sign we won’t be attacked. I’m sure our hosts don’t want us to be eaten.”
That misguided assumption came from the pudgy fox. He voiced another concern that often arises during these journeys… Leave it to the nerve-ridden chatterbox.
“I wonder how far our mysterious destination is. For all we know, we could circle these murky waters forever if our pilot is as immortal as he looks.”
That comment had all eyes turning to the Ferryman.
Each passenger flinched when he spoke in his best sepulchral voice, “Arrival is in thirty minutes. And Douglas will leave you intact, so long as you keep your limbs in the boat.”
“Got it,” the fox said after a snort, even as his eyes widened behind the mask. Under his breath, he added, “A lot can happen in thirty minutes.” He lightened things up. “I’m sure it’s no surprise I came for the promise of the excellent food. They say the finale will make you think you’ve died and gone to heaven, not that I have any expectation of going there.”
“Hmmm. That makes me wonder whether you might be the Cafeteria Killer,” the snake said, squinting an eye at the fox. “The one who likes to add special ingredients to the school menu. They say he’s rotund with the guileless face of a child. It’s astonishing how many kids disappear before the killer moves on. I bet the littlest tots were a tender addition to the tuna casserole.” He paused. “So, what foods do you think might be offered at a banquet in honor of the best in the business?”
“We’re not supposed to guess which legends we’re traveling with,” the fox said petulantly, tapping his mask. “It says so in the fine print. Didn’t you read it? And how would I know what an island at the ass end of nowhere has to offer? But it will be spectacular if our host lives up to his promise because, as you said, we’re the best.”
“I wouldn’t think too highly of yourself, fox boy,” said a twin in his cultured voice. “The host might have special plans for you. Didn’t you notice the fun being poked at you with that mask meant for the wiry Humpty Dumpty? Still, I wonder. Perhaps it was assigned to you intentionally. Foxes are treed by dogs every day. Your plump body would make a great main course. Fitting for the Cafeteria Killer.”
“You all are making a lot of assumptions,” the fox retorted. “If my mask means something, so do yours.”
“The details about these masked balls never have a source,” Cat Woman burst out, sounding worried for the first time. “They appear on the message boards, but I’ve never seen anything other than generic usernames linked to them.”
“What do you mean?” Snake Man asked.
“There’s nothing to prove they came from attendees. I wonder why that never occurred to me before?”
A twin offered a reasonable explanation. “It could simply mean the authors of the chats want to be anonymous. That’s not unusual for criminals of the most wanted variety.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “This creepy journey is making me paranoid. But what if it’s all a trick? Where does that leave us?” She sighed and then fixed a suddenly heated gaze on the twins. Her voice turned sultry. “I think I know who you are. There aren’t many twins who murder together. I’ve never had twins.”
The Ferryman appreciated her skill in switching gears so quickly. This cat woman was turning out to be an extra delight.
She ran her tongue over her teeth. “You both have fine mouths below those intriguing, fiery red masks and lovely grey hair.”
“We’re flattered,” the second twin purred in kind, flashing his teeth in a grin, “but you couldn’t handle even one of us, my dear, and we like our willies right where they are.”
The nervous fox must have spent this time mulling over the idea that he might be prey for a hunt, and he piped back in. “What if we were all invited to be nothing more than the main course? Who would ever know we went missing?”
The aloof Humpty Dumpty spoke for the first time, his gravelly voice ominous. “The messenger who sent my invitation went by Jeffrey Hannibal.”
“So did mine. So what?” said the snake.
Cat Woman’s forehead creased, then her eyebrows leaped above her mask. “Mine was Lector Dahmer,” she squeaked.
Each of them sat straighter, and the Ferryman could almost see light bulbs turning on above their heads. This inevitable perk was his favorite before completing another successful charter, and he savored it.
The twin who’d read the invitation held the embossed paper to the light again. “This is signed, ‘Cordially, your host, Lector Dahmer.’”
They all jumped up so quickly that the boat rocked, causing them to lurch back into their seats.
In a voice full of doom, the Ferryman urged, “Settle down, passengers. You don’t want to fall in. Have you forgotten Douglas?”
They each went still, then carefully settled back in their seat just as the gondola glided into a lagoon. Off in the thick vegetation, a steady drumbeat sounded, and savory smells wafted to them through the ghostly trunks of cypress. Tall, shadowy forms emerged dressed in loincloths, and a closer look at the smiling faces revealed teeth filed to razor-sharp points.
The fox leaped up faster than anyone might imagine a pudgy serial killer could move and shoved the Ferryman over the side.
His fellow passengers cried out in shocked dismay. Then, grins widened under each mask when a ripple that could only be Douglas closed in on the dark robes sinking beneath the duckweed. As the drums beat in rhythm with the rocking gondola, now devoid of a pilot, and more of their ghoulish hosts lined up on the water’s edge to greet them, each passenger rose again to face the others, sure one of them would have the next brainy idea.
I hope you enjoyed this story I was delighted to write under a tough challenge. The requirements were a 2000-word maximum (I’ve expanded this version), a new for me genre, Cannibal Comedy, a ferryman as the character, and the subject, Masked Party.
It all happened in the Writing Battle Autumn 2022 Short Story Contest. I recommend participating for the fabulous feedback from peers, and the professionals… if you make it through the duels.
Artwork by me using the Photoleap and Canva.
Thank you for taking the time to read my story and supporting an indie author. Comments welcome.
If you would like to make a contribution, you can purchase this story along with twelve others in my short story collection, Priss Starwillow & the Wolf, a Starlight Chronicles Short Story, and other stories. Also available on Audible.
Do you see it? Can you picture the whole story? There are so many things to say about the title of this 1987 movie starring Billy Crystal, Danny DeVito, and the late Anne Ramsey of Goonies fame. While my main contemplation is about how it conveys a story in five words, there are other elements worth mentioning.
But first, do you agree with me that the title is a complete story unto itself?
Right off, we have an idea about the characters, their motivations, the plot, and the setting. We know that the protagonist both loves and hates their mother. We know the antagonist has done enough awful things to be worthy of being thrown off a train, or at least having a child fantasize about it, and we get the struggle. There will likely be attempted murder action on a train. We might also guess the outcome. Could you throw your mother off a train no matter how you felt about her? Of course, we can’t foresee all the plot twists and surprises and there are many in this comedy action film, but these five words have me imagining all sorts of things.
Other information gleaned from these five words that I particularly enjoy is that they sound like a book title, which it is. So, we might grasp that element right off as well. I love that this is about a creative writing teacher and writer suffering writer’s block after his ex-wife steals his book and makes millions with it. No one could pull off that maddening fate like Billy Crystal. Throw in an emotionally stunted student who gets the brilliant idea to switch murders in a Hitchcockian Crisscross-type alibi story, and wow! So much to work with.
The creators not only conveyed a story in their title, but they could use the group of clever words as a plot device and a marketing boon… along with the hilarious images of Momma.
What other movie titles can you think of that accomplish this?
Here are some I found:
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
Saving Private Ryan
Tower Heist
Snakes on a Plane
Granted, these might be more about revealing the plots in the titles than giving us a whole story, but I get a lot of information from their brevity, nonetheless. Don’t you?
I’ve also saved a few memes that convey a story in a handful of words. Here’s a favorite.
The challenge of conveying so much with so few words fascinates me, and I’ve returned to it time and again as I pursue novel writing. One of my favorite exercises was contributing two sentence stories last year to fantasy author Richie Billing for his newsletter (which he packs full of helpful resources for writers by the way). One of those is the header on my Short Stories page, Sad Swallow. Oh, alright. I’ll just add it here. It’s only two sentences.
In a voice that plucked at her heart strings, her dear swallow lamented, “All winter we exchanged stories, my beautiful Thumbelina, and it made my heart soar. When you climbed upon my back and begged me to take you to my favorite far away land, how could I have known my happy dream would end with you forsaking me for another?”
Ahem… Okay, so, they’re two long sentences. Still, two sentences. For more of these, click here. They were such a blast to do and based on a genre prompt from Richie. Sad Swallow obviously is a fairytale retelling.
I’ve also tried my hand at 100-word and 250-word stories in what are referred to as drabbles or micro fiction. And I just signed up for another 250-word micro fiction challenge with Writing Battle, taking place in August. So many good things happening on that platform! Thanks Max and Teona!
My latest endeavors in brief tales include poetry, which I’ve written to accompany three stories I will be publishing in one volume later this year. I’m very excited about what I came up with after thinking for years that I could never write poetry. It’s so satisfying and fun!
If you dare, check out my series of three 100-word horror stories here. And my 250-word action adventure drama here (with a bit of ranting on my excellent feedback).
Thanks for tripping with me over the title, Throw Momma From the Train, and have an excellent rest of your June.
What a fun conversation. I was so excited to go behind the scenes of this rapidly growing writing community contest phenomenon. Read on and be fascinated and inspired!
An Introduction from Teona
Once upon a time, Max was a software engineer for a large defence company and unhappy in the lack of creativity he was able to exercise in his job. As an amateur screenwriter himself, he had come across writing contests before but knew there was room for the framework to improve. His wife Teona, was coming to the end of her maternity leave and so Max, with the long term goal of making this his full time job, took over as full-time parent by day and used the very little time in between kiddo naps and nights to mould the contest. With iteration after iteration, integrating suggestions from his brother, the writing battle community, and a lot of long nights full of doubt, he has finally gotten to a place where the contest works remarkably well. Battle season nights can now be spent enjoying wine, reviewing feedback and chatting with Teona instead of sweating over the keyboard to ensure the forums that he built from scratch are ready for the next day (yes that really did happen). Now we are in year three, just wrapped up battle number 9 and Teona has been officially “hired.” We are so excited to watch the community grow and thrilled to hear people enjoy the tournament as much on the writers’ side as we do behind the scenes.
A huge thank you goes out to our community and supporters like Darci who make this dream work for us! 🙂
What a great intro! I had to add it here in addition to my announcement page. I can’t thank you both enough for visiting with me today and chatting about Writing Battle. I was intrigued as soon as I saw a post on Instagram, and so glad I signed up for my first battle. After participating in the Autumn Short Story Contest, I was hooked.
I’ve been noodling over how I might describe the highlights and why I enjoy the contests, but there are a lot of reasons. So, I’ll sprinkle my comments throughout our discussion and hopefully capture it all that way.
I know for me, I can get bogged down in the serious work of writing, so I’ll start off by saying, these contests are just plain fun, a great way to remind me to enjoy the writing process.
In your introduction, there are a number of pursuits mentioned, software engineering, screenplay writing, starting up a business, time for parenting, which led to Writing Battle. Can you each share more about your backgrounds and how they shaped the fantastic platform and resulting community?
Max: My background is a bit all over the place. I was super into film and music as a teenager/early twenties, and ended up joining the Navy. I went from that into Computer Science, but always had it in the back of my mind that I would start writing screenplays again. After participating in NYC Midnight and enjoying the peer critique on their forums, I thought – hey, maybe this could work as a writing platform. A writing tournament where it is entirely peer-powered. The thing with programming is that when you are coding all day long at work, the last thing you want to do is code in the evenings. For me anyway! So it was crucial that I dove head first into Writing Battle. Teona going back to work after mat leave facilitated that – where I could look after our then 1 and 3 year old during the day and code Writing Battle at night.
Teona: We were actually just chatting about this yesterday– I think like many other people during the pandemic, we were in search of something. I had just given birth to our second child and as we said in the intro, Max was very unhappy working in his defence gig which was only amplified by working from home. On my side, and I think (hope?) many parents can also identify with this, I got this overwhelming sense of loss of my own identity to the new one in parenthood; I was happy to go back to work as an EEG Technologist to regain some of that “me-ness” and in turn Max was able to continue developing the WB platform. Obviously both of us could work outside the home, but we always agreed that if we were to have children, we wanted someone at home with them (plus childcare costs in Canada are outrageous, especially having two).
Other things we did/tried during the pandemic: Sell our house; join a cohousing community in construction; write and film a pilot concept with friends for a children’s show; serve as a script supervisor on a few short film sets; talk seriously and explore the idea of moving to other provinces, states, countries; start marriage counselling to better support each others’ search for that ever elusive “something.”
Max is the dreamer. I am the voice of reason (read: stick-in-the-mud). We are constantly trying to bring balance to each other which we are really starting to find in our own exploration of what Writing Battle is :) The biggest thing we have enjoyed about WB is that we truly feel part of a really positive community, which I think at the end of the day is what we have always been looking for.
Teona rants a bit if you can’t already tell 😛
Darci. Haha. Ranting (aka elaborating) is what this creator’s life chat is all about. To hear all the exploration that led you separately and together to what participants can now enjoy in the writing community is truly phenomenal. Thank you for sharing that! I was curious if NYC Midnight influenced some of the ideas behind WB. I’ve enjoyed a few of those competitions, too, though I got a little lost in the giant forums. I must say, Writing Battle does a great job giving its participants a community forum scaled to a fun and manageable size. It’s an amazing design.
The wonderful Writing Battle homepage image (the graphics are another attraction) totally has me picturing you two battling at home with pens and paper, and the lightbulb switching on-Why not spread the fun and get a community involved in battling with us? (Thanks for letting me indulge in my imagination.) Have you, Max, designed other software for fun or for your own creativity before Writing Battle? Did you have earlier manifestations/dreams of a Writing Battle-like platform, or was it only a recent realization?
Max: Thank you haha and I never really saw ourselves in that image, but now that you mention it – I can definitely see it! Especially before marriage counselling (ha). The artist’s name is Nikita Mazurov, and does absolutely amazing art. As far as software for fun, no, not really – just for other companies. I was always interested in online games and board games that explored the social interactions between people like Balderdash. I’m going to sound like a huge dork, but I LOVE the tv show Survivor. I think it’s the coolest social experiment. That’s how I look at Writing Battle. It’s really just a month-long social game for writers.
Darci. Believe me getting to the end of the competition twice now has made me feel like a survivor! I can totally see that influence. All those are great elements and exactly the fun tidbits about the creative process I love sharing with our readers.
Besides your own creative mind and lifestyle changes, are there other people, communities, philosophies, entities who inspired you to go for this?
Teona: I’ll chime in here– I mentioned earlier about joining a cohousing community in the pandemic. I think that in the end, even though that lifestyle didn’t end up fully resonating with how we saw our future, there was something there that may have inspired what we saw WB becoming. Positivity, sharing and evolving ideas, supporting one another– these are all pillars of what that kind of environment is enriched with and we still wanted a part of that in our lives despite leaving the cohousing development. I think Max would agree that we joined the cohousing community in search of “our people” and then tried really hard to fit what we thought that meant instead of coming as we are. I think being our authentic selves and full transparency became incredibly important to us through that experience and we hope that WB showcases that.
There is also one person in particular that was an incredible support to Max throughout this experience and that was his brother Alex. Alex was there cheering on and pushing Max to continue in the deepest moments of discouragement. “Just keep going for a few more months… see what happens and reassess.” That on repeat was our focus. One more battle, one more goalpost with more information. Is this viable? Is this worth it? Can this passion project truly become a source of income? Even when that answer felt like a “no” Alex was there believing in WB, believing in his brother.
Darci. Fantastic. Thank you Alex for helping to keep Writing Battle going so we can all enjoy it! And I’m thrilled to hear it’s becoming viable for you as an income, Max and Teona. Here’s to continued success!
You mention the Writing Battle community feedback helping you improve the platform. What were your biggest hurdles in the beginning and your favorite suggestions?
Max: Special shoutout to Leila Poole from the forums and my brother, Alex, who I bounced ideas off of for the entire first year of Writing Battle. It started with 11 participants from the NYCM forum. Leila was one of the first to agree to participate and “got” what I was trying to do. My initial idea for the site was that it was to be Screenwriting-only, entirely free, and people would only pay if they wanted to redraw their prompts. As you can tell, we’ve had to pivot many times to make this contest work and the community feedback has been crucial. It’s hard to pick a favourite suggestion because honestly, the entire contest has been shaped by the community.
Darci: Ah. The ingredients for success and what a win win for the community and Writing Battle.
One aspect of Writing Battle that really stands out is the peer judging. When I first looked into signing up, my initial reaction was, Oh no. I’m not qualified to judge other writing, and wow that’s quite a commitment in order to participate. But after thinking about it, I could see the appeal, the potential to enjoy a variety of writing styles and learn from them, then benefit on the other side of the coin through the responses to my writing. I did experience a little of that with the NYC Midnight forum and now we know how that platform got the ideas rolling, but can you tell us more about the story behind the peer participation?
Max: The initial inspiration came from how valuable I found peer feedback for my own screenwriting, but there’s a bit more to the story – I also found that the judges for writing contests tended to all be cut from the same cloth. And I mean, why wouldn’t they be? It takes a certain type of person to apply to be a creative writing judge. To begin with, you have to think that you’re qualified! So they are typically literary academics that understand the craft of creative writing. There’s nothing wrong with that, and feedback from those folks has value, but they don’t represent the entire readership pool. Far from it. Like you say, it’s a bit intimidating to think about joining a writing competition where you are also a judge. However, if you can read, you can judge. You know what you like and what you don’t like. We believe authors should be striving to write stories that everyone wants to read. Not just academics.
Darci: I for one have benefitted from the feedback in a myriad ways, especially when there is a consistency in the tone or a specific element(s) of the story that gets pinpointed by a majority of the judges. If you can suck it up and take it to heart, you can’t help but grow by leaps and bounds as a writer. Highly recommend the experience!
When you register, there is an opt out of the judging for stated reasons. I’ve been curious. Do you get participants who select that option?
Max: No, very few people select the opt-out option. Last Battle, out of 725 people only 4 selected that option. It’s our way to help folks that may be too busy to read stories that month or perhaps have triggers that would make it too risky to read unvetted stories. All of the extra money goes to members of the community that have chosen to read more stories that Battle. Essentially, it’s a reading fee. But yeah – not very popular. People seem to love to read/judge other stories even if there is some risk involved with triggers.
Darci: You must really dig statistics like that. What a great way to know it’s working.
Now for the details because those are what infuse the Writing Battle platform with fun. I adore it when it’s time to draw my prompts! I love having options to redraw and going through the decision process to determine whether to keep my initial draw, or take a chance on another combination. The fun in this is reflected in the community comments when contestants share how they went outside of their comfort zone to write in a different genre for the first time. That’s happened to me each time (Cannibal Comedy and Lost World). When I read the results of their efforts, I’m blown away every time. Can you give us some behind the scenes on developing the tarot card idea?
Max: I was just always into poker as a kid and I love card games so that’s where the redrawing came from. Writing prompts seemed like a good fit to stick on a card. There’s no fun tarot card story really haha I just thought it would look cool :) glad you like it!
Darci: Awesome! Your fun is our fun.
How do you come up with/decide on the genres?
Teona: A lot of that has been community feedback. We noticed we got the best reactions when we had the wildest genres – as long as they were from a spread of genre categories (plot-driven, spec, comedic, and more serious). Max and I have SO much fun sitting down, drinking wine, and throwing crazy genre ideas at each other. Some are solely to make the other person laugh like Cannibal Comedy. There have been some killer community forum suggestions for this last Battle that will heavily influence our upcoming competitions.
Darci. There’s that image again of you two at the table. Such a great icon. I’m going to have to find more time to read the forums. This is another great example of your creative energy influencing the writing community and bouncing back to you. I love it.
I noticed the prompts are repeated in the contests like they’ve been reshuffled for the new batch of genres. How do you come up with the prompts?
Max: They’re really just from lists that I’ve compiled from the internet, and it’s always amazing to read the stories that people come up with. In the very first battle, there was a prompt type called ‘Things’ and it consisted of every single noun in the English language (which I downloaded from some online dictionary). We’re talking tens of thousands of words that people could draw, but that just made people upset when they drew prompts like praseodymium and had no idea what to write. We pruned that list to around 600 words and called it ‘Objects’ instead of Things haha. There’s still work to do on expanding the other prompt types.
Darci: Oh that’s a great story. I’m looking up praseodymium… hmmm, a mineral from the periodic table. Might have to give it a go. Wait. I have tried that. My supernatural romance series features promethium used to make a weapon deadly to shifters because for some weird reason I wanted to incorporate rare earth minerals into my story. Love it!
I blogged a bit recently after my second contest about how Writing Battle works. I broke it down into stages, which is another fun element; the different ways we can be involved over the weeks as we move towards the final judging. But I admit, I had to describe the peer review (duelling) elimination rounds in general terms because the process is mind boggling. I’m still not sure if my story was eliminated in the second or third round. 😁
My confusion is probably due to my lack of a gaming background or some brainy, techy component I’m missing, but I would love for you to give our readers more on the concept in layman’s terms, so we might understand how it works.
Max: Haha I’m still trying to figure out how to describe it! I’ll do my best.
The first stage has the writer redrawing prompts and writing a story in a short amount of time.
After submission, the contest enters the second stage where each writer becomes an anonymous judge. They are given 10 stories total, but spread out over the course of 3 weeks – given two stories to judge at-a-time. They have to read each of the two stories, give a bit of feedback, then choose a “winner” of the two. That process is called a Duel. Those Duels help progress a massive best-of-five, single elimination tournament. The peer judging stops when the top two stories from each of the four genres have been determined and that brings us to the third stage.
There’s a bit of a fog-of-war until the third stage. No one knows who wrote what or how their story did. The third stage allows the writers to share their story in a semi-public forum called Debrief. Because the peer-judging is over, it’s now safe to reveal yourself (if you choose to do so). You read each other’s stories and comment on them, but this time not anonymously and not in a Duel. We then slowly lift the fog-of-war and reveal the tournament brackets over a week-long period while the industry judges (authors) pick the four winners from the final 8 that the peer-judging chose in the second stage.
Darci: Thank you!
Can you share the gist of the collective feedback you get from the community on participating in the Duels?
Max: I think the initial reaction is something like – “Uhhh wait this sounds like work.” Haha, which is fair! It is a bit of extra work. But by the time the fifth Duel rolls around, I would say in general it becomes their favourite part about the contest. It’s also an unexpected educational tool. You read stories of varying quality and you get to decide for yourself what works and what doesn’t and then maybe even ask yourself why something connected with you. I’ve had a participant in his 80’s tell me it not only changed the way he writes, but even changed the way he reads. I found that fascinating.
Darci: That’s great, and I can relate to my fellow participant’s comments.
How do you find and involve the amazing professional judges?
Max: I just cold-email everyone until I get a response. We’re still trying to perfect that part of the contest.
Teona: I had the exact same question when Max told me the calibre of people he had agreeing to be the pro judges! Like how? You didn’t sell our firstborn right? Haha. He insisted he just cold-emailed them on a whim, ensured me artists were supportive of other artists and that that’s what drove them to support our little cause.
Darci: Haha. So fun to hear from you both on that. And I didn’t expect the cold calling technique though I don’t know why because it’s simple and it works. I’ve employed the “it can’t hurt to ask if you want something” policy many times. That’s how I invited you both to chat with me. 😄
I’m going to put you on the spot here. Do you get to read any of the submissions after they are open to the community?
Teona: YES! And not just after, we read them all throughout the judging stages, keep an eye on our favourites, or on members like yourself who we have developed a relationship with through the community :) We are also sifting through all the feedback during the battle to ensure people are adhering to the rules. Sometimes that requires us to read stories to make sure the judges are doing their part and being fair to their duels by truly reading and providing feedback that directly addresses the stories facing off. On at least two recent occasions, Max has looked over at me at my desk and I was in tears, and he asked “what happened?” and I simply respond “I just read an amazing story that may not have existed without WB and I am grateful to be a part of that” <3
Darci: OMG. I love it! What a bonus to see what your competition inspires.
It seems to me that the numerous contest opportunities scheduled throughout the year are planned to perfection and run smoothly at this point in time. Any plans for enhancements or additional features?
Max: Always. I am currently rebuilding the website and all of the code from scratch. The new website should be released in a couple of weeks. Stay tuned!
Darci: Ooh. How exciting! Thank you for sharing that right here on my blog!
The aesthetics of the Writing Battle website are very appealing and inviting. It adds so much to the fun. Who does the artwork/design?
Max: Thank you! I mentioned the artist, Nikita Mazurov, who did the art for the landing page. Design has been the hardest part for me. I didn’t know it at the time, but I think I (perhaps poorly) was going for a neo-brutalist web design when I first created the site. It’s been fun to learn as I go. The new website is a lot more chill and maybe a little easier on the eyes if you’re on the site for longer periods of time.
I’d like to include one more question on a personal note. Do you both find time to write and create? Max, do you still get to write screenplays? If so, what are your works in progress and goals? What are your tips for balancing it all with life and family?
Max: No writing for me for the past year, unfortunately. I have a few ideas floating around that I still want to explore. I could definitely see myself in a couple of years getting back into it and feeling out screenwriting a bit more. As far as work/life balance, it’s pretty easy when you have a couple of preschoolers running around. They have the tendency to pull you from work to focus on them haha.
Teona: I would never identify myself as a writer. I am better at stream of consciousness writing as a means to organise my thoughts and I love playing with words in doing so but I have never really tried to write a story. Maybe someday :)
I don’t know that we are at all qualified to be giving tips about balance. HAHA. Some days are incredibly balanced and harmonious– this is usually following a rare full night’s sleep (our kids have always been terrible sleepers). For a more accurate picture of our “balance” it is kinda just roll with whatever seems to be working that day, hour, or moment, and reassess in the evening to try and make the next day better. Having young kids and an even younger business is no joke but we are having an absolute blast with it all, learning lots along the way and for us it truly comes down to good communication.
Thank you so much, Max and Teona, for visiting today! This has been a blast. You can follow Writing Battle on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter to participate in this amazing writing community, but don’t forget to sign up for a battle!
Any parting words of advice to our readers who dream about writing, web design, and finding ways to pursue their creative passions?
Max: Thank you for the thoughtful questions. This has been a lot of fun! My only real advice would be to constantly re-evaluate and not to be afraid to pivot. I think it’s unrealistic to believe that you know what you have before creating your first prototype or draft. Get feedback and see how people use what you create. If it’s writing– then get honest critique and take it to heart. Don’t be afraid to admit when you’re wrong and pivot towards what’s working for your consumers.
Teona: Max has taught me to reach further than what I believe or perceive to be the edge of possibility. WB is proof of that for me.
The spicy scent in the air is enough, but then there are the crisp, warm colors, both bringing the coziness that lends itself to all the activities I enjoy—writing, reading a good paranormal romance, knitting, walking with my dogs and husband, taking a drive through the mountains, maybe on a yarn crawl, or going to Apple Hill to pick up a deep-dish apple pie. I’m missing those this year. But my friend and I are already planning for next year.
I mention a drive through the mountains (only miles away) because from my house, the colors are somewhat absent. But it’s only minutes, and I find myself immersed in color. That’s life in the high desert. I’m situated at 5,000 feet amid scrubby sagebrush and elm trees, looking across at Mt. Rose with its tantalizing streaks of orange and yellow. I do have a single pistachio tree that tries to do its brilliant thing before the frost hits or the winds blow off all the leaves. Still, I can’t complain about the views from my two acres.
Fall is also when I order my calendars and customized weekly planner from Personal Planner, an activity I eagerly look forward to all year. Setting up a new planner is the best part. When I need a break from writing, I turn to my neglected cross-stitching, knitting, and crochet WIPs while listening to books or watching movies. I also enjoy coloring in my planner inserts or doing a little Zentangling. So cozy! I signed up for the fall Writing Battle Short Story Contest because I haven’t participated in one of their seasonal challenges in a while, and I miss them! I’m also thinking about writing a flash fiction piece for a contest with Fractured Lit.
Here are a few photo collages to spread the cheer.
My crafts are never carried out alone. This is Fernando, the chihuahua, and Harley the… Well, your guess is as good as mine. Both rescues and my best writing buddies. These are a few of my favorite fall cross stitch projects, two finished, and one I’m hoping to get done by Halloween.
How about a cozy paranormal romance for your fall reading enjoyment? Follow me to stay posted on my October sale.
Two brothers get swept into the Coral Sea by a wave to end all waves, but they have their surfboards and ride them out. Then, a giant, golden fruit bobs up on the horizon, carrying a motley crew of survivors and promising the strangest of rides.
~~~
Carter passed the binoculars to his brother as the two leaned against the railing at the top of the giant pineapple. The fiberglass fruit hadn’t originally been a houseboat, but it made a damn good one after being swept into the sea by the tsunami that devastated eastern Queensland. Before that, it served for decades as a popular photo-op entrance to a zoo.
“Still no sign of life in any direction.”
The dire report came with Flynn’s unflagging optimism, making Carter marvel and shake his head before responding.
“Miro thinks we’re mostly drifting in circles but says there’s a possibility we’re inching towards New Caledonia. What do you think?”
Flynn lowered the glasses. “If anyone has a clue, it’s Miro. He can read the sky. Going in circles isn’t good.”
“I know. Rations are thinning… like, to nothing, but us starving is not what worries me.”
Flynn chuckled, nudging his brother. “You still haven’t made friends with Bunji and Dainen?”
“It’s not a matter of making friends. What do you think the tigers will do when they get hungrier? Even to me, you look like a juicy steak.” Flynn laughed harder, lifting Carter’s spirits as always.
Nothing could shake his brother’s sense of adventure. It’s what kept them alive long enough to come across this absurd sanctuary.
The brothers were camping on Rainbow Beach when disaster struck across what turned out to be an unbelievable swath through Oceana. They survived the monster wave, the one everyone talked about but didn’t believe would come, only because they were excellent surfers.
They saw the huge swell on the horizon before it grew so massive, it blocked out the sun, and they grabbed their boards and prayed. Thanks to Flynn having snatched up his bugout bag with a flare gun and firing a shot, they managed to find each other again, though it took them half a day to reunite and lash their boards together. That had been a crazy, happy time.
After that miracle, they drifted for days as if they were the only two beings on the planet. On the night before their next miracle, the starry heavens had lulled Carter into philosophical dreams, and he’d given himself up to the big sleep when his brother’s hopeful voice penetrated his resignation.
“Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?”
With an effort, Carter lifted his head towards the horizon and spotted through hazy eyes something that gave him a needed jolt. “Is that a pineapple?”
“It’s a BLOOMIN pineapple! And there are people on it, waving like mad. We’re saved, Carter, by a giant symbol of hospitality.”
The next surge rolled them close enough to paddle alongside the marvelous fruit, where helpful hands pulled them onto the lacquered rind. There, they lay on their backs and smiled into friendly faces, blocking out the morning rays.
When two massive furry heads nudged their way into the greeting, the brothers kept smiling. Why wouldn’t there be tigers on a floating pineapple?
Miro popped out of the makeshift hatch, returning Carter to the present when he demonstrated his uncanny hearing.
“Oi! You knocking my babies, mates?”
Bridie popped up next to him, her freckled face splitting into a grin. “I thought you blokes knew better.”
Thunderous growls followed. The cats’ offering their own indignant comments.
Carter grinned at the zookeeper who’d raised the orphaned beasts and the teenage girl who was the first to hitch a ride with him on this giant fruit, bobbing its way to… anywhere.
###
Five days later, Carter was in a staring match with Bunji. Was the cat drooling? He’d been sure that by now, he and Flynn would have been heaps of bones scraped clean and bleaching under the sun.
They were all starving. Nothing in the way of food had made an appearance in days, no matter how hard they searched. Even Miro, with his uncanny abilities, had been unsuccessful.
Purrs erupted from the massive cat as it plopped onto its haunches and lifted a hefty paw to lick it. Dainen draped himself beside his brother, joining him in a thorough grooming. Narrowing his eyes at the languid felines, Carter couldn’t decide whether to be amused or wary.
The longer he watched them, the more somber he got. Their predatory instincts could trigger without warning in an instant. Would they eat them all at once or spread them out over time? He jolted when the cats rose together in a baffling show of alertness. Then, he felt it.
Carter peeked over the rind at Miro, who was dangling a gull wing over the water. “Um… Miro, why is this pineapple bobbing like a giant version of your lure?” He was already queasy with the jerky motion.
The pineapple dipped again, drastically enough for Miro to grip onto the tiled surface.
“Come, boys! Inside.” Miro waved at his cats and Carter, and one by one, they shimmied down the hatch.
Flynn and Bridie were sitting cross-legged on their sleeping pallets, playing poker with homemade cards, which were actually more feathers from the gull Miro had managed to snare and prepare raw for them. The memory of choking that down made Carter’s stomach roil even more.
Bridie laid down her hand, calling out smugly, “Full house.” She gasped when the pineapple lurched again.
The rocking became so violent that Carter was thrown to the floor and couldn’t stop himself from rolling into Bridie, who was crouched on all fours, trying to hang on. They tangled up together and crashed into the wall.
Flynn slammed into them before their home tilted in the opposite direction, sending them all rolling to the other side. The tigers leapt around them, finding purchase at each tumbling motion, like hamsters on a wheel. Miro, as nimble as the cats, managed to stay upright until he could grab onto the ladder under the hatch.
By the fifth tilt, Carter was sure he was going to be sick. But the motion slowed, then halted altogether. Their relief turned to excitement when they realized the floating pineapple was bumping into something solid. Bridie was the first to recover and scrambled up the hatch to the surface.
Flynn called after her, then followed. Carter came up behind them and stood next to his brother. All three gaped at their surroundings. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the vegetation seemed foreign. The air smelled unlike anything he’d ever smelled, and the sky was painted in odd shades of aqua, blending in with the sea.
Miro yelled for them to get inside because waves were rolling in behind them, ready to pound them into a cliff. But that wasn’t their worst problem. Swooping at them from a massive nest high above were a pair of humongous, winged creatures that did not fit this time. Wicked claws reached for them.
“No way!” Flynn cried excitedly.
Deafened by the screeches coming from the snapping, teeth-lined beaks, Carter dove back inside, right behind Bridie and Flynn. Miro dropped through the hatch and slammed it shut. They rode out the pummeling, maybe for an hour, until everything stopped. Had they been washed up on a beach?
“You three WILL stay inside,” Miro ordered, “and the boys and I will investigate.” Narrowed onyx eyes pinned them down until they relented.
After so many hours had passed listening to ominous noises, Bridie said, “That’s it. I’m going after him.”
The brothers didn’t say a word. Just geared up with their meager belongings and followed her out of the hatch. They climbed down and stood, gaping in disbelief at an unnatural paradise.
“It smells primal,” Flynn concluded after sniffing the air.
“I have no idea what primal smells like,” Bridie whispered as they crept up the beach on shaky legs, “but somehow I get you.”
Carter could hardly take in details fast enough because a lot of what he saw looked edible. His once roiling stomach growled—loud enough, Bridie shot him a sideways glance.
She jerked to a halt. “Do you hear that?”
Not only was the sound terrifying, but the ground vibrated. The tops of the trees rustled. Suddenly, the tigers pounced at them, and they cried out, throwing up their arms until they realized their feline heroes were after something much bigger behind them.
Carter could not believe his eyes. A two-story beast bore down on them with scales, gnashing teeth, and a terrible roar.
Stepping out of the trees, Miro beckoned them, and they ran for their lives. The tigers, having done their worst to a beast with a horrifically thick hide, bounded after them, while Carter entertained the useless thought that floating on the ocean in a pineapple, searching for food, wasn’t so bad.
~~~
How the Contest Works at Writing Battle
Writing Battle… Winter Flash Fiction Contest… What can I say? Okay, I’ll just say it. It feels just like I went ten rounds in a boxing ring! (Since I’ve never done that, I make conjecture here for dramatic purposes.) Only it’s a month long and a knock down drag out struggle through five rounds.
First, there’s the excitement of drawing my prompts with the fabulous flipping tarot cards. Then deciding within the very narrow timeframe of creating my story whether I want to stick with my draw, or try for a redraw. (This time, I did avail myself of the one redraw allowed for the genre, so I went from Winter Survival to Lost World and it felt like a bonus gift! I stuck with my character – zookeeper, and object – pineapple, but I could have redrawn up to 7 more times)
Writing a story in a Lost world with a zookeeper and a pineapple? No problem!
Then comes the writing, rewriting, begging friends and family to read it, rewriting, rewriting, then hitting that submit button. Whew! Surviving stage one… done!
Stage two… the duels. I get to go from writer to judge. The best part? I’m treated to some very good stories (in the three other genres I’m not competing in), and it is so very hard to pick between the two stories (for five duels)! I’ve discovered that offering feedback is not only a great way to give back to my community of writers, but it’s a super good learning experience.
While we wait for stage three, we can open our story to the community and read other stories, then give and get more feedback, or just chat. There are four genres. I mentioned two, Winter Survival and Lost World. The other two were Occult and Meet Cute. One of my favorite stories I read in the post-dueling rest period was from a male author who got Meet Cute and decided to go for it. It wasn’t in his wheelhouse. It was my favorite story. He nailed it. The characters were amazing, it was funny, and the ending delivered the perfect punch and left me grinning.
But the nail biting continues folks. Once the dueling is over and we’ve chilled for about a week and enjoyed more stories, the scoring begins. It’s quite an elaborate system, but I’ll try to capture the gist. There are four rounds of elimination based on the initial seeding round and subsequent dueling results, then the fifth round goes to the professional judge. Each day, we come back for the results. Yikes! I will mention at this point, the platform is pure genius, if you aren’t picking up on that already. All the stages are well laid out with a timer, so you know exactly what will happen next and when.
My goal is to make it to round five one day. I think (if I’m figuring things out right) I made it to round three this time before getting knocked out. My story in the 2022 Autumn Short Story Contest, The Passengers (edited here based on feedback), made it to round two. But that’s okay. The competition is fierce, and no matter the results, you get feedback from your peers. Talk about learning. The story above got enough consistent feedback to tell me exactly what to work on.
I’m signed up for the 500-word Spring Micro Fiction Contest. Registration is open! Then comes the 250-word Summer Nanofiction, then Screenwriting… and back to the 2000-word short story. Did I mention yet, there are cash prizes? Very decent ones, too.
Feedback is welcome on A Pineapple Ride to Anywhere. I’d love to see how it jives with my peers at Writing Battle.
Enjoy a little computer generated imagery and thanks for visiting, and the read!
My Pineapple AI art, courtesy of Photoleap
The last photo is the real thing and inspiration for my story. A landmark in Queensland that captured my imagination before I even traveled there. How could I not use this awesomeness in a story with a pineapple prompt? 😉
Now for the big announcement!
You can meet Max and Teona, the team behind the Writing Battle platform, on my Sunday Creator Spotlight. See Post!
Lauren’s happiness is shattered when the compulsive need to retrieve her comb lets her overhear a conversation between the two most important people in her life.
###
If Lauren hadn’t gone back for her comb, her world would still be vertical, not slanting horribly sideways.
She clutched at the door of the stall with a shaky hand and held her stomach with the other, hoping to keep down the bile trying to explode to the surface. The only thing stopping her from giving in to the tilt and collapsing on the public toilet floor was the public toilet. Someone had neglected to flush it. Lovely.
Desperate to gulp in air from somewhere other than the fetid space shrinking around her, she used every ounce of her willpower to get the door open and stumble out of the bathroom.
She pulled herself together enough to sweep past the lockers without drawing attention and slipped through the back door of the cycling studio. There, she leaned against the wall under the pink-tinged blue sky and focused all her energy on breathing. How can the day be so bright when my world has gone dark?
As her heart settled its erratic pounding, she became aware of something digging into her hand, and she stared at the purple object she’d clutched through the whole awful episode. Her favorite comb. A bubble of hysteria escaped her lips. Hot tears threatened next, and that’s when she got angry. Was everything a lie? Could I be that blind?
The act of shoving the comb in her bag brought forth a bitter irony. She would still be blissfully ignorant if not for her compulsion to rescue such a trivial possession. She let out another embarrassing squeak of hysteria and glanced around the parking lot to make sure she was alone. Alone.
That hated word rang in her head and brought tears to the surface again. She let a few drops slip out and straightened, smoothing her Lycra shirt over her bike shorts.
Then, Lauren walked purposefully to her car. The private conversation that had precipitated the nauseating tilt to her universe played through her head as she climbed in.
It was a cool day, so she sealed herself inside, clicked on the power, blasted her favorite XM station, and let herself belabor the truth she could not unhear. James and Danika were passionately in love, with no reservations, in a way that left Lauren with no reason to believe it was a passing thing. When did it happen?
That didn’t matter because it was clear she had just lost the love of her life and her best friend in one moment of fateful eavesdropping. The devastating truth had been revealed because her comb had slipped from her bag and landed near a vent, which turned out to be the perfect sound conductor to the door of the men’s locker room.
Her thoughts took her again to the horrid moments when she crouched in that dingy spot under the sink, which capsule of time was now burned into her memory.
As she reached for the wayward piece of plastic, familiar honeyed tones floated to her.
“Please… James.”
In the loaded pause that followed, the first cracks had formed in Lauren’s illusion of happiness because she could hear lips traveling over soft skin, so clear the pair might as well be standing right in front of her. She could even feel those lips—because she knew them.
The voice repeated the words as if the speaker were trying to get Lauren’s attention.
“Please, James… She’s just down the hall. We need to be careful until we can figure out a way to break this to her. It’s going to crush her.”
“She’ll see the truth of it, Danika. We’ve been hiding this for too long, and it’s unhealthy—for all three of us. It’s time.”
“But James. We’re all she has. How can we do this? I love you, and I want to spend my time with you openly, but I love her, too.”
There was regret in his sigh and the words that followed.
“If she cares about us, and you know she does, she won’t be selfish. We didn’t ask for this to happen and even tried to stop it.”
More sounds of passion punctuated his angst while they drove nails into Lauren’s heart.
“It will hurt at first,” James continued, “but she’s a reasonable human being. We can’t continue living a lie and wasting our lives trapped in the wrong combination.”
Danika’s breathless voice rose slightly. “You’re delusional if you believe this won’t ruin the friendships we’ve treasured since high school. You’ve known her the longest. Do you really think she’ll stick around after our betrayal?”
That was when Lauren reached her threshold of pain, when the bile started its molten rise to her throat, choking her, and her first reaction was to head to a toilet. At least she was past that first ugly moment.
The music blasting from her car speakers helped her think. She became aware that the clear skies had turned to rain. It seemed appropriate to be surrounded by rivulets of water—like tears. Lauren’s skin was clammy, and she touched her stiff face with icy fingers. Is this what shock feels like?
The only positive thing she could glom onto was that she’d made it to her car without being noticed. She sank deeper into her leather seat to make her presence less obvious and rubbed at her sore heart. How was she going to face them again?Should she confront them? She didn’t see that going well. She would make a fool out of herself and accomplish nothing.
The unreality kept reverberating. James had been her best friend since kindergarten. He understood her better than anyone, even Danika. They were aware of their importance in her life. The three of them had been inseparable for the last five years, working, partying, traveling together, and cycling twice a week at this studio she would never be able to return to.
Her resentment flared. They were the ones who hid behind their lies. It should have been them facing her and suffering through a confession. But her heart wouldn’t hold onto the anger, filling instead with hollow devastation, even as she attempted to contemplate a different future. Could I leave this place? Could I start over somewhere else?
None of them had lived anywhere but this small town. She doubted she even had the skills to make new friends or find a new lover because she had only ever needed the two people she left whispering together in the studio.
She texted Danika with trembling fingers. The screen of her phone blurred through the stubborn tears she could no longer stem. It took her a few minutes to reread her message before she sent it. It was important to get it right because she did care deeply for them and always would. “I’m not feeling well, my love. I’ll see you at home later. Enjoy dinner out with James—for both of us.”
This drama came from a NYC Midnight writing challenge where I needed to incorporate a comb and a cycling studio. Keep in mind that these short story platforms are challenging not only because of the random prompts and genres but also because they must be written in a short format in a short period. I was pretty happy about my little love triangle and the impact on Lauren’s life just from dropping her comb.
If you were a giant god sentenced to eternal torture, how would you entertain yourself during a reprieve?
You may know the story of Prometheus, the lover of mankind who gave us fire and endured a similar punishment exacted on him by Zeus, but here is the lesser known story of Tityus. Tortured for being a cad.
In the lull between new moons and the vulture’s next meal, only one thing eases this giant god’s torment—inflicting torment of his own.
###
Tityus gave only half a thought to punching the giant birds in their wrinkled bald faces because doing so was futile. He knew this because he’d done it a million times over thousands of years, and it hadn’t yet stopped the beastly vultures from chewing out his liver every twenty-eighth day, starting precisely at six p.m., Eastern European Time.
It was now seven.
The voracious creatures will finish digging into his side in exactly one hour, after which Tityus will endure more agonizing pain with the regrowth of his immortal organ, only to have the endless punishment repeated at the next new moon.
In the lulls between, the giant often wondered who suffered worse torment: the birds who were sent to Hell to eat the same meal every month for eternity or Tityus, who had to provide it.
He decided that punching the bobbing heads would make him feel better. Caving in half their ugly faces was immensely satisfying, as was their distressed flapping of wings and distorted screeching through shattered beaks.
Yes. It was well worth the pain of extra flesh tearing away from his body by the force of his blow. It got better when the vile birds flew off to find a ledge and repair themselves.
A sound between a moan and a sigh seeped from Tityus, echoing through his stone and moss-covered grotto deep below the base of Mount Parnassus. Zeus might be liberal in handing out sentences to his dozens of offspring when they went astray, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t keeping track of every single one, always watching, always ready to condemn.
The giant dared to hope his father had witnessed his act of bored defiance.
Since he’d been given a bonus reprieve, he took the opportunity to recline more comfortably on his loamy pallet, which stretched beneath him across his nine-acre earthen home.
Tityus picked up the remote and flipped through the programs his sister had selected for him to view on an eighty-foot screen hanging on his southern limestone wall. Only recently had Persephone produced the ingenious device to give him a diversion between bouts of torture.
Thinking of his sister made the giant god smile. Sephie was the only one who believed he’d been goaded into his crime of passion by Hera and pleaded his case every chance she got. Even the goddess who bore him and the one who raised him hadn’t taken his side, though both had reasons to blame Hera for their problems. It seemed everyone stuck together when it came to condemning him, but not Persephone. His sister’s loyalty and affection never wavered.
She also understood how critical viewing a pair of humans suffering misguided love was in sustaining him between bouts of torture. The entertainment distracted him from the looming specter of gnashing vulture beaks and the indescribable agony when his tormenters slurped up strips of his flesh like so many earthworms wriggling beneath his home.
###
It took the better part of the first week growing back his liver to make his choice. Tityus was lost in the pleasure of planning his victim’s torment when a leafy vine began winding its way up his leg.
Since his limb was the length of a stadium, it took time for the greenery to get close to his face, but Tityus was patient as always while he waited for Persephone to make her appearance.
The vine stopped its horizontal travels at his hip, then shot straight up as it thickened into shapely limbs that stretched into a torso. A lovely neck and face appeared next, and soon the dulcet tones of the Queen of the Underworld chimed through his grotto.
“Hello, Brother. That gleam in your eye must mean you’ve made your selection.”
He dialed back his voice to keep from blasting his sister off his hip. “I have, though each couple was as tempting as the other. Thank you for that. Choosing was half the fun.”
She clasped her hands together and grinned. “That is what I hoped for. It has been too long since you’ve enjoyed a good vacation. I’ve been pleading your case again, brother. Father thanked me for the reminder that retribution against his children harms humans, too. But then, he got that look.”
“Ever my champion, dear sister. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Well, your horrid eternal torment does not fit the crime you were tricked into and didn’t even complete.” Tityus shined his affection on his sister with his moon-sized green eyes and nudged her into his palm with a forefinger.
She made herself comfortable before finishing her outburst. “It is agony each time your groans shake the Underworld.”
“You are too good to me, Sephie, a balm to my soul. Won’t you stay a while?”
“That is why I’m here.” She reached out and patted his thumb. “I will convince Father soon. Meanwhile, you deserve a reprieve from toying with your humans.” She sank into his palm, propping on her elbow and resting her head in her hand, her vines twining into a canopy and anchoring themselves around Tityus’s fingers. “Now, who did you pick?”
“If I only have time for one show, this pair has the potential to give us a top-rated performance.” Tityus clicked the remote, and the giant screen came to life.
The sibling gods peered down at the two people crouched in a square pit at the center of an archeological site near the west bank of the Nile.
###
Sarah had no clue what she did to Nathan’s insides when that earnest concentration scrunched up her pretty brow. Parts of him clenched enough to be uncomfortable when she pushed her glasses higher on her pert nose, smudged with red dust. Not only did his heart thump erratically, but he almost groaned out loud.
That embarrassing prospect broke the spell. He cursed under his breath. If she could read his foolish thoughts, she would for sure request his replacement. He took heart that his dig partner had given him a few hopeful signs.
Nathan returned his attention to the pottery shard they were carefully easing out of the three-and-a-half-thousand-year-old soil. This newest section had turned up an amazing cache of tools, human bones, two delicate cat skulls, and three nearly intact clay jars.
He peered closer at the shard, brushed away a few more flecks, and hiked a brow. He nudged Sarah.
“What does this say to you?”
“I saw it too, Nathan,” she said in her sweet, yet husky voice, which got him going again, “and I’m thinking what you’re thinking.”
Her excitement washed over him.
“We could be confirming our theory,” she said. “Do you agree?” He was struck by her glittering aqua eyes and gave himself a mental shake before answering.
“It’s harder to deny when we add this to the rest. But Sarah, we’ve been breathing the dirt in this six-foot square hole for eight hours. Let’s secure our finds and get out of here. It’s time to celebrate with a night out in Luxor.”
“You want to finish the day’s work without cataloging these beauties—without even deciphering these symbols first?” She cocked her head. “Have I worked you that hard?” He laughed.
“I just need to get clean, then go sweat at a club with dancing and liquor. Morning will be soon enough to inspect our treasure.”
“I suppose getting sweaty for a different reason would be a nice change of pace. You’re on.”
But those words passing through full pink lips and the vision of Sarah writhing on a dance floor forced him to stay crouched for a minute longer as he battled waves of yearning.
Maybe torturing himself with a carefree evening in her company wasn’t such a grand idea… On the other hand, it could be his long-awaited opportunity.
###
Tityus paused the video. Small boulders slid down the embankment behind them when he spoke. “You can see he’s got it bad and has no idea she’s been exploring her sexuality. I’ve got a few maneuvers planned to help her decide things.”
“Can I assume her choices won’t include Nathan?” Persephone’s amber eyes gleamed.
“That’s the plan… after we squeeze more entertainment from them first. You did well, Sister. I can smell his pathos.” Tityus closed his eyes and inhaled the moist, earthy air. It caused a cyclone to whirl a path around them and rattle Persephony’s flowering vines.
“Abundant suffering is in store for poor Nathan,” Tityus continued. “That, and the chaos of their confusion, will go a long way in helping me endure my next round of torment. I’ve already conjured hours of lush images for my dreams.” He cracked an eye open. “We might even enjoy collateral damage. We’ve got a third party involved.”
The silence that followed the giant’s cessation of speaking left a vacuum in the subterranean chamber. Crickets sounded in the recesses. Frogs croaked near the waterfall, and a shiny beetle whirred by on heavy wings.
The walls shook again when a thought made Tityus chuckle. “Is our uncle aware of your new penchant for misguiding love-struck humans?” The Queen of the Underworld let out an undignified snort.
“Hades does not care how I occupy my time, only that he can call me to him whenever he wants. Speaking of the demanding one, I feel his pull. I promise to be back for another installment. But don’t wait. You can catch me up.”
Tityus was used to Persephone’s spontaneous appearances and abrupt departures and didn’t mind when the forest of greenery disappeared with his sister in a wispy puff. He clicked his remote to open the next scene.
###
Nathan was sweaty just as planned, but he’d never had so much fun getting into this state of bodily dampness.
Sarah arranged for several friends from the university to meet them at the discotheque. For the past two hours, the girls made it their mission to keep him jerking and grinding on the strobe-lit dance floor. He’d finally pleaded for a break to cool down and freshen up.
Revived and happy with the results—he looked damned fine if he said so himself—Nathan pushed his way through the crush of dancers and back to the bar where he’d left his charming companions with another round of drinks. When he was close enough to spot them through the crowd, he came to a dead stop, his heart plummeting like a stone.
Sarah sat on a stool close to her friend, whose lips were pressed against Sarah’s ear. At first, it looked like Eman was just trying to be heard in the din. Then, he noticed their clasped hands. Eman’s tongue darted into Sarah’s ear, and Sarah laughed, pulling back, her eyes glittering with excitement—and something else.
How could I have had things so wrong?
The shock wore off in the next instant, but that only let a whole slew of other confusing emotions overwhelm him as he stood there gaping until the thought of what he must look like penetrated the fog.
Before Nathan could move, Sarah caught him acting like a statue, and her smile turned into a frown. Eman followed her gaze, held up the drink she had waiting for him, and grinned, clearly having no idea his world had just collapsed.
Nathan’s arm went up in a halfhearted answer, and he somehow got his legs moving again.
An hour later, hunched over his third whiskey, crushed between the chattering girls at the table Eman snagged for them, Nathan wondered how he was surviving his bitter disappointment and the suffocating nightclub. On the upside, he no longer doubted how deep his feelings went for Sarah.
The alcohol had at least numbed the sharpest jabs to his heart, but despair continued buzzing nauseatingly in his ears. Nathan would have no clue how to answer if anyone asked him what the girls had talked about for the last hour, and he didn’t think he was even nodding at the right places anymore.
He had to get out of here.
“Will you be good getting Sarah back to the site, Eman?” he said, breaking out of his stupor. They each turned to him in surprise. He cleared his throat. “I’m going to call it a night and head back.”
“Are you okay?” Sarah said as she laid a hand on his arm. “Maybe you should have a coffee first.”
That was sound advice, but the thought of watching Sarah and Eman whispering together another minute made him want to throw up.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll see you at eight tomorrow. Don’t be late.” Nathan attempted to smile at his lame humor, but judging by Sarah’s furrowed brow, his face must have looked as wan as he felt.
He slapped a few bills on the table, mostly to ensure Sarah had enough to get back if Eman couldn’t drive her.
“Enjoy the rest of the night. It was a pleasure meeting all of you.”
Sarah looked like she might say something, but nodded and turned to her friends without another glance his way.
Nathan barely managed to keep his shoulders from slumping in defeat as he headed to the exit.
###
This time, the flowering vines trailed down the side of the cavern before finding purchase on the giant arm sticking out of the earth. The writhing greenery tickled, waking Tityus from a satisfying dream about Nathan’s puny human heart being crushed to a pulp.
He cracked open a giant green orb and waited for Persephone to materialize on a dirt mound covering his shoulder.
The more Tityus buried himself in the earth, the better he dreamed. He didn’t dwell too much on the reasons for that, though Zeus would be the first to say he had a mother complex. Tityus wouldn’t deny it. He was born of Gaia, after all, his giant newborn self nearly breaking his mother in two on the way out.
Persephone, wearing her favorite skull crown, leaned on her beautifully turned mahogany staff to peer into his eyes. “Well? Was it as entertaining as you hoped?”
“Better.” The rumbling word rippled the damp soil covering him and tossed up handfuls of pebbles.
“What do you think Nathan will do now?” Persephone said as she steadied herself. “Can he endure working with Sarah? Keep his job? Wait! Do you think he’ll give up his precious career?”
“You made it in time for the next installment,” Tityus said. “When Nathan left the club around two in the morning, he was in a state of mind perfect for the rare Luxor mugger to take advantage of. The thief robbed him and beat him senseless. That event alone will get me through the next liver donation. Sarah is about to discover he never made it back.”
Persephone raised her cupped hand, and a bloodred mist swirled in her fingers. When it dissipated, she was holding several bunches of purple grapes, the size of which no human had ever seen. She plucked half the fruit off one and tossed it into Tityus’s mouth before asking him a question.
“Is he alive?” Tityus nodded as he chewed. “You realize having him harmed could make your plans go the wrong direction,” she pointed out. Another enthusiastic nod jolted her off her feet.
“Gambling on humans finding their way despite our interference is what makes this hobby so satisfying,” he said after swallowing his second bunch of grapes.
His sister picked herself up and smiled. “Then, let’s get comfortable and watch.”
Tityus clicked his remote, and the shadowy, moss-covered grotto walls brightened from the desert scene as if a portal had opened over ancient Thebes.
###
The morning sun lit up the endless waves of sand and gleamed off an enormous pyramid. The archaeological encampment was tiny in its shadow.
A lone figure crouched in the pit under an umbrella, working meticulously at an eye-level spot in the strata. Part of her attention was clearly reserved for listening because the anxious archaeologist kept bobbing up her ladder at the slightest sound to scan the dirt track meandering toward Luxor.
“Hey, Charles,” Sarah called out, her voice overly loud. “Have you heard from Nathan?”
A man crouching in the adjacent pit answered her. “Not since you asked me fifteen minutes ago. But I’m concerned, too. I sent Jack to hunt for him. I’m sure he must have holed up in a hotel room to sleep off the whiskey. You know what a lightweight he is. We should quit worrying.”
As soon as that last word drifted over the sand between them, the crunch of tires had them both springing up their ladders and peering over the edges of their pits.
Back in the grotto, Persephone, nestled in the dip of Tityus’s shoulder, voiced an observation. “That must be Jack with Nathan. If I’m wrong, I’ll find you eight victims for next month’s programming.”
Tityus stopped chuckling when he spotted a golden eagle much too large to be natural, swooping over the dig site. It wheeled between the tents and landed delicately on a clothesline strung with camp blankets.
“Uh… Sephie, dear. Do you think…”
“Yes,” she drawled. “It’s Father. Hell’s Gate! How does he always know?” She barked out a laugh. “Never mind. Stupid question. We’re better off working on plausible deniability.”
They looked over the scene again to find the car had arrived at the encampment and parked under a cover. A burly, bearded man stepped out of the driver’s side, opened the door to the backseat, and helped out a slighter man clearly in pain and struggling to move.
“Nathan!” Sarah shouted. Swift and surefooted, she scrambled up her ladder and ran to the car.
The eagle made another pass over the scene. Tityus and Persephone eyed each other when a screech that could only belong to the powerful Olympian who was their sire sounded all the way to the grotto. The humans carried on, oblivious to the mythical winged creature in their midst.
Sweat beading his brow, Nathan straightened and faced Sarah as she came to an abrupt halt and gasped. She slapped a hand over her mouth but dropped it in the next instant.
“Oh my god,” she bit out. “What happened?”
Embarrassment emphasized the damage on Nathan’s face, but his voice was dignified. “I had a run-in on the way to the taxi stand and woke up in an alley with my pockets inside out. Thankfully, Jack thought to check the police station.”
This time, the humans looked up when a screech rent the air. They each watched, eyes wide, as the majestic bird of prey disappeared over the horizon.
“You scared me to death, Nathan,” Sarah said with a hitch as she turned back to her colleague.
A pale Nathan was growing wobblier by the second.
She stepped closer and softened her words. “I know what I did to you last night. I’ve been confused about… things. I’m really sorry. Today… Somehow… Well, everything is clearer. Will you forgive me?”
Hope bloomed on Nathan’s face, though his distorted lips and a puffy black eye turned the expression ghastly. He cocked his head. “What are you saying, Sarah?”
“Eman is off to Cambridge. We said goodbye last night, for good. You’re the one I want to be with. Can I hope for the same?”
The burly Jack cleared his throat, effectively returning the couple to their surroundings. “While it’s clear this exchange is doing Nathan good, he’s about to drop where he stands. Are you ready to have a lie-down, kid?”
Sarah raised her shining face to Nathan, wrapped her arm around his waist, and guided him to the med tent.
The warmth in her eyes was the final death knell for the giant’s precious hiatus. Tityus punched the button on the remote violently enough to crush the entire thing, and the desert view went dark, throwing his grotto into shadow.
Persephone was already turning wispy with her disappearing vines. “I am sorry, Brother. But you understand that I must return to Hades. I promise to do what I can to cool our father’s wrath.”
Tityus wanted to cringe at the bitter irony and miserable resignation creeping into his rumbling laughter as it trailed after her.
“You will do better for me by staying clear of Zeus for now, and away from here, dear sister. But don’t wait long for another visit.”
In the lull left by the departing Queen of the Dead and her greenery, Tityus settled his ginormous body beneath the earth where he clung to his last comfort—his dreams of unrequited love suffered by miserable humans—as he waited for the next new moon and the vultures to circle… The End… Until the next new moon…
The End… Until the next new moon…
I wrote this for a contest. I absolutely adore this premise. My friend, Lucky Noma, was inspired to write his version of the tortured giant and how he might wreak havoc on mankind for the sole purpose of providing a diversion. Stay tuned, because Lucky and I are planning a Tityus anthology.
What story would you come up with for this bored giant’s entertainment? Let me know in the comments.
If you would like to support an independent author who loves to share her stories, this story along with an eclectic anthology of more fun tales is available for $1.99 at your favorite bookstore. Thank you!
~ Mareduke is the last of his kind, and if the humans have their way, no dragons at all will exist in Kassia. Then, he meets two remarkable beings intent on changing his fate. ~
New Artwork!
I hope you enjoy this story I submitted to a contest where the prompts required a dragon meet a toddler in the forest, and the followed from the encounter. This was a joy to write.
Mareduke’s bloody, scaled head froze mid-dip. He reeled his tongue back in and stared at the child across the water. A long, cool drink was critical to his state of near-death, but he gave it up to inspect the reflection cast into the mountain lake by the tiny person on the grassy ledge.
An image of a girl, not much more than two, wrapped in a cloak, wavered over the gleaming surface. The sun glinted on that spot as if shining a beacon on the proof he sought. He raised his eyes to the embankment again.
The toddler was real, and she was staring back.
His snort displaced the water below his face. She would just have to watch while he drank because he was losing blood faster than his magic could heal him. There were too many wounds. Enough to end him if he couldn’t hydrate and rest.
The humans’ trap this time was multilayered and rigged with an exorbitant number of blades that had pulled Mareduke further down a natural pit with every move he made. They must have spent weeks designing all the intricate hazards.
He had come close to losing his head to a saw blade, and a broadsword had missed his heart by inches when it lodged between his ribs. But when he quit panicking long enough to halt the agonizing plummet, he was able to gather his magic and break free with enough momentum to gain altitude and escape the armed contingent of dragon assassins waiting for him on the surface.
He had spit his wrath at the failed murderers as he flew away, but they jeered at him when his usual rain of fire barely amounted to a drizzle and his wounded body listed sideways. He didn’t care. At this stage of life, he was accustomed to the humans and their collective superior attitude towards him and his dying species.
Still, he couldn’t understand their brutal solution to his thievery. He wasn’t there to hurt them, just grab a meal, a plump sheep or two, only because they had a penful of the tasty morsels too tempting to resist. Why did all humans insist on trying to kill him before his time? As far as Mareduke knew, he was the end of the line, and the idea, when he let himself dwell on it, that humans couldn’t share the whole of the Kingdom of Kassia with even one of his kind offended him.
The dragon had pushed himself to get to this refuge where he could recover his strength. He was surprised he had made it. Maybe it was the loss of blood that brought him this tiny vision because humans rarely came to this lake so high in the mountains, and a child would never survive the trek with or without accompaniment. Yet, it was getting harder to deny he beheld one standing at the water’s edge alone, appearing as if she were on a picnic.
He settled on his haunches, resting his chin on his front paws to better observe her. She hadn’t made a sound, only sticking her finger in her mouth as she looked around before focusing on him again.
This was the most bizarre thing he’d experienced in his young dragon life. What was she? He presumed she was human, but she could be anything. He considered how he might find out since neither of them could speak to the other.
Mareduke examined her for clues. Her cloak was made of fine, blue-dyed cloth with a glimmer weaving through that spoke of magic. Her wavy mop of strawberry-blond hair and clothing appeared clean, though her feet were bare.
That made him wonder if she was cold, but then he thought not. It was mild this time of year, even at this elevation.
While he sorted her out, she made herself comfortable as well, plopping down on a fluffy tuft of grass, her stubby legs sticking straight out, toes wiggling as they stretched toward the water. She got busy plucking nearby wildflowers until she gripped an entire bouquet in her small hand.
In between peeking at him, she observed other bits of life in her immediate vicinity, her finger returning absently to her mouth. He watched in amusement when she sniffed the pungent flowers, and her nose wrinkled. Still, she offered her collection a happy smile.
Mareduke grew more entranced when nature began to react to the tiny being. As it had done to her reflection earlier, sunbeams coalesced above her, dust motes dancing around her head like tiny fairies. Two bees drifted toward the flowers before darting at the nectar. Butterflies flitted around her smiling face.
A few woodland creatures crept close. A rabbit rose on its hind legs above the grass, wriggling its nose in her direction. A pair of doves settled in a branch and cooed. A doe and her fawns watched it all from the shade of a tree. Squirrels, hedgehogs, and even a young fox made an appearance. None of the creatures paid attention to Mareduke, their fascination centering on the pleasant child.
Mareduke thought that even with her mysterious aura, she had parents somewhere who were worrying about her. But what was even more curious than her origin was how she had come to be here.
The dragon froze when something crashed through the trees.
The life clustering around the child scattered, leaving her blinking at their sudden absence. She stood and turned towards the growls and cracking branches. A mountain troll was nearing, clearly unconcerned with announcing his presence. Typical. They stink, too. Mareduke should have smelled the vile creature long before he heard him, but he’d been distracted.
He needed to decide what to do about the child directly in his path. The troll would sooner snack on her than look at her, and the only thing to stop the voracious brute was Mareduke, but he was still weak from his injuries.
When the bulbous head popped out from the trees, Mareduke wasted no more time thinking. He flapped his wings and, in two strokes, landed between the oncoming threat and the helpless toddler.
The troll’s red-rimmed gaze fixed on Mareduke as he bore down on him with a club gripped in both hands. The ground shook under them as the beast closed in, his roars deafening.
Mareduke laid his wing over the ground and motioned for the little one to hop on. But she just stared at him as if unaffected by the approaching menace.
The absurdity of his situation made Mareduke want to snort in protest. Here he was, a perpetual target of human violence, getting ready to lay down his life for one of their offspring, if that’s what she was, because she couldn’t grasp that it was imperative to climb on.
He inhaled with everything he had in him for one good burst of fire, even as he indulged in the stories they would tell of his sacrifice on behalf of the enemy. That glorious notion deflated a bit when he remembered there was no one but a baby to witness his death.
Still, he drew in his breath. If he were destroyed, she would have no chance at all. He launched his fire. The paltry flames stopped the oncoming troll—for all of ten seconds.
The child tucked beneath him tapped the bottom of his chest with a fist so small he could barely feel it. But it got his attention. She smiled at him and clapped her hands, and Mareduke experienced an entirely new sensation. The air turned heavy, then seemed to curl in on itself.
His stomach lurched, and he closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were in a flower-covered meadow surrounded by jagged mountain peaks. He didn’t recognize the mountains, and there was no sign of the troll.
###
When Mareduke’s world stopped tilting, he took in his surroundings. A hut squatted near a giant oak tree with a stone fireplace taking up an entire end. Smoke curled from the chimney. There was a garden with neat rows of vegetables. A milk cow poked its head through a half door in a miniature barn as it chewed its cud. A raven cawed from the roof, and the child’s face split into a wide smile.
She waved at the bird, which squawked louder, stretched, and flapped its wings before flying to the ground and landing at the dragon’s feet, where it proceeded to change into a tall, bearded man in flowing robes.
“Well done, Eliana,” the man said, smiling down at the child. “You found him.” He peered up at Mareduke. “Can you understand my words, dragon?” Mareduke dipped his snout, and the man continued, “Judging by your copious wounds, your guardian was nearly too late.” Guardian?
Mareduke glanced at the small, grinning face, catching the flicker in her blue eyes.
“Have you no knowledge of the Western Woodland Fae?” the man asked him. Mareduke cocked his head, and the man explained. “The fairies who guard all living creatures in Kassia, though their relationship with dragons is the most sacred. One like Eliana is born every eight hundred years, give or take, with a special affinity for dragons, and a destiny that compels her to do all in her power to preserve the species.”
When Mareduke continued to stare, he added, “You must have raised yourself, young dragon, just as I theorized. You are truly alone, then?” Mareduke bobbed his snout. “What is your name? Wait, allow me to place my staff over your heart. I will be able to hear you in my mind.”
Curious to experience this, Mareduke allowed it. The oaken staff was strangely warm and comforting, which made it easy to respond. I am Mareduke. Will you please tell me who you are and where this is?
The man stepped back and said with a poignant smile, “Eliana. Meet Mareduke, quite possibly the last of his kind.” His smile brightened. “Though Eliana and I harbor hopes that won’t be the case. Don’t we, child?”
The tiny person laughed and said his name in a musical child’s voice, and the sound struck a chord in his heart.
“I am Pantheos, young Mareduke,” the man said after a bow and a sweep of his staff. “An old wizard, retired from the academy where I spent a lifetime studying dragons and their history, all in preparation for meeting up with little Eliana here when it was time. Your time, Mareduke. Finding you is one part of our task. The other is to find your mate. If we don’t, then all hope for the dragons is lost. What do you think about this purpose?”
Mareduke snorted and shook his great wings as the staff again touched his chest. It was liberating to have a voice, and he spoke. I hatched alone and believed I would die alone, accepting that fate marked me as the last of my kind. I never considered that another dragon waited for me somewhere. Can it really be possible?
“We have evidence she exists, or at least existed,” Pantheos said. “Her name is Cindra.”
All at once, Mareduke’s weakened state got the better of him, and he plopped on his haunches.
“Please, forgive my thoughtlessness!” the wizard said.
He pointed his staff at the well behind them, and a splash sounded from a bucket dropping into the water, followed by a creaking when the wizard’s magic operated the crank to pull it back up. Pantheos stepped to the well, retrieved the bucket, and brought it to Mareduke, repeating the process Mareduke supposed until the wizard was sure he wouldn’t keel over.
As he lapped up the sweet water, Eliana settled on his front leg close to his head and patted his cheek.
He flinched when a voice spoke in his mind, sounding anything but childish.
I am sorry you suffered such abuse today, Mareduke. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the part of Eliana that always exists, and I am very pleased to meet you. I would have found you earlier if my information had included your foray into that village. But everything Pantheos and I knew of you pointed to the lake once you ventured out for food.
He tilted an eye at her. Your kind must hatch fully developed, like dragons. Otherwise, how can you sound like a grown person? Her little-girl laughter lifted his heart, and he was sure his healing sped up by a day. She explained more.
I am an old soul, aware of my occupation inside this organic being who must grow in a mother’s womb before existing. I am both child and your spirit guardian, and my entire purpose is to see that you survive to have offspring of your own. But we must first find a way to make peace between dragons and humans.
How are you speaking to me now, and why not at the lake?
First, you needed to get used to the idea of me as a child, and I needed to observe you. When your heart opened to the possibilities, we were able to connect.
When Mareduke woke this morning with an empty stomach and the misguided plan to raid that village, no one could have persuaded him that by the end of the day, he would no longer be alone.
He puffed out a tiny bit of air to ruffle her hair, making the child laugh. Her ageless voice sounded again.
So long as Pantheos and I draw breath, you will never again feel the bite of loneliness.
Mareduke aimed his snout at Pantheos’s staff, and the wizard nodded, touching it to his chest.
I understand a little now about the soul called Eliana, but please tell me more about the child and how she retrieved a grown dragon on her own and brought us here. His big green eye swiveled back to the tiny being. Don’t you have parents?
“Eliana is my ward,” Pantheos said, “and her powerful Fae magic is why we have this arrangement. It is part of my destiny to help her learn to control her magic and to train her as a guardian. Though her soul has experienced this before, the child must learn how to function in this role. Her parents knew what she was when she was born, and they sought me out. She has a mark, you see.”
The pintsize Fae swept her cloak over her shoulder and showed Mareduke the small dragon’s eye on her forearm. The mark was more proof that he should listen to them, and Mareduke wondered how he could have lived all this time without knowing about the Western Woodland Fae and the guardians.
Trepidation struck him. Eliana felt it and turned to her mentor. Once again, the staff covered Mareduke’s heart, and the dragon spoke his worry in their minds.
If humans are my enemy, what about the danger to those who come to my aid?
“Well, yes,” Pantheos said. “You’ve grasped the tricky part. That is why you do not recognize these landmarks. Eliana brought you through a portal to a place the humans cannot find, the land of the Kassian gnomes. You won’t see them, but the nature-loving beings are all around this clearing, watching, never having seen a dragon.” Mareduke glanced around in interest as Pantheos continued.
“And you’ve addressed the other reason her parents left her in my care. Our best chance to meet our destiny and all the challenges it will bring is to combine our strengths. The plan is for you to help us locate your mate. Time is of the essence because the last known female dragon faces the same hazards as you.
“We’ve traced her territory, which includes the Western Woodlands. But we have not received word of Cindra for some weeks.” After this troubling news, the wizard rubbed his hands together. “Now. Did you consume any sheep in that raid? Or do you require a meal?”
Eliana pressed her hand to Mareduke’s chest and conveyed his answer in halting toddler words as if the ageless one had retreated. “He ate before being caught in the trap. He’s good for a day or two.”
“Fine,” Pantheos said. “We’ll catch you up and plan our expedition while you finish recovering.”
Mareduke’s head was spinning. Yet, everything his new friends said felt right. Eliana felt right, even if her dual nature was a bit disconcerting, and he knew this little glen was where he was supposed to be at that moment.
As for the future, he thought to himself, could there really exist another dragon in Kassia? What if something has happened to this one called Cindra? What if it hasn’t and we meet, and she hates the sight of me? Or worse, I can’t stand her?
He snorted, filling the air with small puffs of smoke. None of that mattered if it meant he was no longer the last of his kind.
###
The third time Mareduke had to insert himself between the villagers and the magnificent silver dragon belching molten fire, he began to seriously question the necessity of pairing up with his own kind.
No one told him female dragons were bigger than males, stronger, and could set half a town on fire with one blast.
And Mareduke had made her angry.
It took two weeks to investigate the leads the three had narrowed down and one more to pinpoint the most likely location for them to find Cindra.
Having left Pantheos and Eliana in a safe place, Mareduke arrived at the south edge of the Western Woodlands just in time to save what was left of a town under attack by the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
Cindra had strategically wiped out the village center and the humans who could best organize a defense. The villagers were scattering in all directions, disappearing into the woods, jumping in the lake, and hiding in rock crevices up the side of the adjacent mountain. And still, she circled her quarry, laying down fire to cut off retreats and destroy crops, livestock, and any other industry critical to the inhabitants’ livelihoods.
His best guess, if anyone were to ask him, was that his female counterpart didn’t like humans. And she just added him to that list, judging by how she bore down on him now, which made Mareduke grateful for his smaller size. She might be a powerhouse, but he could fly circles around her, and he proceeded to do that as he led her away from the village by stages to the secluded mountain meadow where his friends waited.
He just needed to figure out how to calm her down before they arrived.
Did the humans offend you?
He tossed that question her way as he dove under her belly.
She twisted her body and flew backward, aiming fire at him when she had a clear shot. He swerved, and it hit a shelf of snow and caused a small avalanche. He circled a mountain spire, disappearing from her view, then found a spot behind her to try again.
Is this how you treat all your new friends? he couldn’t help asking.
I have no friends, you muddy-colored dragon. Who do you think you are, interfering with my retribution? Flames shot from her nostrils. Are you a coward, hiding behind my back?
Mareduke snorted.
I can’t help that your size shields me from your eyes, even as it blocks the sun.
Cindra roared.
Mareduke had stopped feeling intimidated halfway to their destination, and he continued even as he ducked her fire.
The humans try to kill me on a regular basis. But I am bigger than them, and I don’t believe in using my advantages to harm others.
Well. Aren’t you the saintly one? Is this why you showed up out of nowhere? To protect humans?
Uh… Sort of. My friends and I have heard of you. You do realize there aren’t many of us around?
So what?
Why are you angry?
Why do you care? And where are you taking us?
Hmmm. So, she noticed. He didn’t think anything other than the truth would work, so he went for it.
My friends have been searching for you and want to meet you. They only recently found me, and when they told me you existed, I wanted to meet you, too. I’m Mareduke. Will you be peaceable if I take you to them? They are beings of the two-legged variety.
Since you’ve made me curious, I promise not to harm your puny friends, but I’m not promising to stick around. I have things to do.
Eliana stood in full sight, grinning at them as they circled the meadow and clapping her hands in delight.
What is that? Cindra’s voice in his head was scathing as she emphasized each word. That tiny being is one of your friends?
Her name is Eliana. Mareduke made sure to put plenty of warning in his own tone. And yes, she is my friend.
Where are your other friends?
There are only two. Now, will you land with me and let us explain?
I said I would, and I will.
###
Eliana’s toddler charm had little effect on the dragon with the bad attitude, but Cindra’s reaction to Pantheos when he stepped out of the trees surprised Mareduke. She went down on one fore-knee and bowed her head.
“You know who I am?” Pantheos asked her after returning a bow. The silver head bobbed. “Would you be amenable to drinking this potion so I can hear you? It is how I communicate with Mareduke.”
Cindra agreed with another nod, and Pantheos spoke in an ancient tongue as he turned his staff halfway around, then back again, and a bucket of water appeared in front of each dragon. It was only then that Mareduke realized he was parched.
The huge dragon waited patiently for Pantheos to add a few drops to her bucket. As she drank, Eliana stepped close enough to reach out and touch the silvery, scaled face. Cindra ignored her until the small hand caressed the bridge of her snout. She stiffened before aiming a sable eye at the bold child. When Eliana’s laughter bubbled out, Cindra jerked back and rose to her full height.
Mareduke spotted the warmth in her gaze before she hid it.
“I am pleased to finally meet you, Cindra,” Pantheos said.
It is an honor to meet you, High Mage. My mother told me the story of how you came to her aid. Your intervention with the humans enabled her to reach the nesting grounds. Otherwise, I might not be here. Cindra’s visage darkened. The humans killed her not many years later.
“I am sorry. I was informed of the tragedy and tried to find you, but you’ve kept yourself well hidden, other than coming out for those raids that have made you notorious.”
Do you know of my father, High Mage?
“Please, call me Pantheos. Yes, and I was there to help your mother through her despair. You have my deepest sympathies for the loss of both your parents, maiden dragon. That is why my young apprentice and I have not given up our search. It was Mareduke’s abilities that allowed us to finally succeed. It is our purpose to ensure your parents’ fate does not befall the two of you. You are the last of your kind.”
Cindra, after casting a scornful eye at Mareduke, looked down her snout at the toddler, who was still smiling at her.
Who, or should I say what, is this child?
“She is a dragon guardian. Do you know of such ones?”
I’ve heard of these fae. I have respect for her people and leave them out of my reckoning. It is only the humans who deserve my wrath. And you are keeping me from my next engagement. So, I’m afraid I must take my leave.
Mareduke scoffed.
That’s it? You can’t give us any more of your precious time to learn about your other choice?
Let me guess. My other choice involves mating with you. No thanks. I’m fine on my own.
Mareduke’s brownish-green scales glowed bronze, and his emerald eyes blazed with his indignation. A chuff of surprise was Cindra’s only reaction to the impressive sight, and she spread her wings in preparation for taking off.
Mareduke got in the last word when she was aloft.
We might be fine on our own… but should we be?
The last four words were louder in their heads than he intended because Cindra was already a mere speck in the distance. The reverberation elicited a squeal from Eliana as she plopped on her bottom.
It was the ancient guardian who spoke next in a voice covering the distance to the disappearing dragon.
We will meet again, dear friend.
###
Mareduke was not sure why he made the effort to track down the unpleasant maiden dragon … again. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand her pain. Part of him would like to give in to vengeance for the violence that ended his own parents’ lives. But he’d long ago come to terms with his principles over killing. Nothing good came of it.
He thought Cindra might believe that, deep down, somehow sensing that her destructive ways ate at her. Convincing her to change was another matter. Eliana and Pantheos assured him it was worth a try, so they flew with him to yet another human village they had pegged on their map of Cindra’s territory.
Mareduke didn’t want to admit it, but he could feel her in his heart, which assured him they were on the right path. He wasn’t ready to face the idea his sensitivity was due to a mate bond already forming, so he put that thought away.
They saw the blaze rising above the trees before they spotted the silver dragon camouflaged against a low cloud. He sent his thoughts to his passengers.
She is one headstrong beast. But this village was prepared. Do you see the trebuchets lined up around the perimeter? The brave ones are determined to load them even as some die under her fire.
“And it appears half contain buckets of tar, while half are fireballs,” Pantheos observed. “That is quite a defense.”
I foresee those wicked devices causing her death, the guardian said in a grim voice. We must disarm them.
I will not risk you, Eliana. We should put you down somewhere safe.
You needn’t worry about me, Mareduke. We have one shot at a pass while they are focused on her. Let’s go.
The little one was right. Mareduke flew low and fast, knocking the legs out from most of the machines before the humans realized another dragon had descended on them.
The flaming ammunition dropped to the ground, and the villagers scrambled to put out their fires. But they were prepared, tying cloths over their mouths and pulling covers over each spot to snuff out the flames.
Still, Mareduke couldn’t fly to them all fast enough.
“To your right!” Pantheos shouted.
The trebuchets still standing were repositioned, tar buckets set ablaze, and aimed their way. Besides the tar, fire from above rained down from a device before he could topple it. Mareduke twisted and shot up, managing to dodge the tar, but the flames hit his flank, and he faltered under the searing pain.
Hang on! He alerted his passengers. I can get us away.
Even as he listed to the side, he managed to power his wings enough to lift above the machines, but not out of range of a tar bucket, which hurtled towards his chest. If he ducked the wrong way, the flaming missile would splatter his precious cargo. He braced himself for the pain, staying his path.
A silver wing arced between them and the tarry danger. Mareduke roared out his fear for Cindra. The bigger dragon smashed the bucket to the ground with her outstretched wing, which collapsed the remaining trebuchets, but not before her wing was doused with the thick, molten goo. She careened sideways, then crashed to the ground.
The smell of gaseous tar and burning dragon flesh filled Mareduke’s nostrils.
The humans closed in with more tar and torches.
Set us down next to Cindra, Pantheos commanded. Mareduke wasted no time landing in a way that allowed him to shield the injured dragon struggling to stand.
Cindra’s voice, full of pain and frustration, rang in his head, her eyes glowing with admiration.
What are you doing, you murky dragon? Go! Get that child away from here!
Prismatic beams flared from Pantheos’s staff in every direction. The humans stopped to shield their eyes before spotting the source standing atop Mareduke’s back.
“I am the High Mage, Pantheos. I bring a decree from the King who has sworn to protect the last of the dragon kind, provided my apprentice and I find them alive. We have fulfilled our task. These sacred creatures are all that is left. It is not right to destroy them.” He paused, “Or that they exact revenge on you, but that will change. There will be a peaceful coexistence. Eliana and I will see to it. Now, stand down and let us leave with the injured dragon.”
One of the men stepped forward.
“Many have died today. What does King Lathan say about that?”
Eliana reached for Pantheos, who picked her up so she could face the crowd. A beam of sunlight washed over the child. A pair of doves appeared from nowhere and landed on each shoulder, cooing gently. Butterflies likewise appeared, flitting delicately over her head.
The sweet, halting voice of a child sounded across the smoldering village. “There has been much death on both sides. It must end here.”
Though many in the crowd appeared swayed by her compelling tone and peaceful magic, the man called out again, “Until there is a king who will decide differently. My descendants may yet avenge our dead.” “That may be,” the little one said, “if you decide that to be your legacy. For now, let there be peace, and let me go home with my friends. For I promise you, one day you will need them.”
Artwork by D. L. Lewellyn using Photoleap and Canva.
If you would like to support an independent author who loves to share her stories, this story along with an eclectic anthology of more fun tales is available for $1.99 at your favorite bookstore. Thank you!
What happens when a pair of hungry fish keep getting their feeding time interrupted by a stranger lurking in the house wielding a butcher knife?
The day had been exceedingly long, but soon, the family would appear one by one from wherever they went outside of the Oscarsons’ frame of reference, which encompassed a large portion of the living space from their well-appointed fifty-gallon aquarium in the foyer.
The last of the evening sun bathed the entire front of the house but left the back in shadows.
For the fifth time, Mr. Oscarson swam to the glass facing the front door and grumbled, “I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving, dear,” said Mrs. Oscarson in a tone that suggested she often placated her insatiable husband.
“It’s worse today, and you know this because once again, Lily forgot our breakfast. You might think Hank would make sure his daughter followed through with her chores since he constantly talks to anyone who will listen about his prized Oscars.”
Mrs. Oscarson snorted. Bubbles burst from her lips. “You seem to believe we’re not mere decoration.”
Mr. Oscarson was about to expound on his favorite topic when his wife’s tail twitched. “Did you hear that?”
“What? My stomach growling.”
“Hush. It’s coming from the kitchen.”
He did hear something then, like glass falling to the floor, followed by a quiet thud.
From their spot, they could just see the kitchen entry. An object moved in the shadows, made its way through the dining room, and emerged near the foyer as a large, hooded figure.
“Hmmm. That can’t be good,” Mr. Oscarson said.
The man gripped a butcher knife in a gloved hand.
“Oh my,” said Mrs. Oscarson.
He passed their home on his way to the living room and headed up the stairs, his footsteps as quiet as a cat’s. Soon, they heard faint sounds like closets and drawers opening and closing.
When a key jiggled in the front door, Mr. Oscarson, being a fish, completely forgot about the stranger in the house as the pains in his stomach took over all thought. “Finally!” he trumpeted, sending sound waves to ricochet off the glass.
The aquarium was the first thing the family saw when they came through the front door, which was beneficial to the Oscarsons. The impressive fish were clever at drawing attention to their antics.
Sure enough, the head of the house set his briefcase down and stepped briskly to the glass. “Lily forgot to feed you this morning, didn’t she, my beauties? Let’s take care of that right now.”
Hank picked up the food shaker and was about to sprinkle the flakes over the Oscarsons’ waiting mouths when something flashed on the dining room floor that caught his eye. He frowned and set their food on the table.
“Dammit! So close!”
“Settle down, Mr. Oscarson. Hank has more important things to do. Like avoiding a very sharp weapon wielded by a very big stranger.”
“Couldn’t he have given us one shake first?”
The pair watched as Hank inspected the small pieces of glass left behind by the stranger’s boot, then followed a trail to the kitchen. They heard muttered curses. When he headed their way again, he had his phone to his ear, and a voice coming from the device said, “This is 911. What is your emergency?”
“I came home to find evidence of a break-in,” Hank said quietly as he stooped to pick up another piece of glass. “I think someone is in my house.”
The Oscarsons were shocked when he continued up the stairs. “Shouldn’t he at least arm himself? Who does he think he is? Arnold Schwarzenegger?”
Mr. Oscarson was a huge fan. The couple had a full view of the television from the south end of their watery home and enjoyed action-hero binge nights with Hank.
Next, they heard Hank hollering, followed by gasps, grunts, and thuds. Then, then utter quiet.
“I certainly hope not all those ominous sounds were Hank’s,” said a worried Mrs. Oscarson. But it was the stranger who came down the stairs, his knife dripping blood on the carpet.
The big man ducked into the living room when the front door opened to reveal Hank’s better half. Lisa smiled at the fish and stepped right up to the aquarium. She always gave them her smile, no matter how her day went.
Mr. Oscarsons’ empty stomach prompted him to draw her attention despite the danger, and very likely, a dead husband waiting for her upstairs. She answered the big colorful fish’s call, picking up the food shaker just as he hoped.
The Oscarsons once again poked their mouths through the surface in anticipation, but nothing came because the stranger sneaked up on Lisa and shoved the ten-inch blade into her abdomen.
“Oh dear. We should have found a way to warn her,” Mrs. Oscarson said, sounding beside herself as they watched Lisa slump into the stranger’s arms.
He hugged her to him like a lover and carried her up the stairs.
The fish darted around their home in agitation, and Mr. Oscarson finally displayed a sense of horror. “It’s much too quiet up there. What could he be doing?”
The front door opened again, and it was Lily who rushed to the aquarium.
“I am so sorry, you two! I can’t believe I forgot to feed you again.”
She paused when she noticed the overturned shaker but picked it up and was aiming it their way when she spotted the blood at her feet. She froze.
Terror spread over her young face.
The hand holding the shaker began to tremble, but no flakes escaped, much to Mr. Oscarsons’ frustration, which had returned in full force with another tantalizing view of food hovering so close.
Lily’s eyes followed the trail of blood up the stairs. “Oh my god,” she said with a trembling breath. The shaker dropped to the floor.
“Really? Why is this turning out to be the worst day ever?” said Mr. Oscarson as he sank gloomily away from the surface.
Sirens blared outside, and red lights flashed through the windows. The sound of breaking glass came from upstairs, followed by moans and faint calls for help. “My dear husband, it is going to get worse because I doubt any of these busy people will think to feed us,” said the wise Mrs. Oscarson as the first responders burst through the door and Lily cried out for her parents before fainting in a heap—right on top of their food.
Thank you for reading my story. I would love comments if you have a minute to let me know what you think.
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Enjoy A 500-Word Micro Fiction – Environmental Drama – Writing Battle Challenge
The contest is over, awesome feedback received and analyzed. A few spots adjusted based on it. Here you go… I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. 😊
A Noble Wind
Salty, moist air blanketed Libby’s face, teasing out hesitant tears as she stood on deck, clutching a familiar tattered backpack to her chest. A beam of sunlight pierced the fog and shined on the letter trembling in her hand as if encouraging her to read it again.
Dear Ms. Warner. We regret to inform you your father was lost with his party during a confrontation in the North Sea…
An image she carried around like a treasured childhood book bloomed along with her sorrow.
She was a little girl, snuggled under her pop’s arm as he crammed himself onto her tiny bed and read aloud tales of the great behemoths that once ruled the seas. By the time she was eight, her pop had gone through Moby Dick three times.
“Are you okay, Libby?” She blinked and focused on her new shipmate.
“I just need to sit a minute.”
“There’s a bench by the bulkhead,” he said as he gestured to the spot. She stared at it, still gripping the bag to her chest, and managed to get her legs moving. He followed her.
Libby sat and looked up to find the features of his face obscured by dewy sunlight. She tried to remember his name and thought it was Joe. His voice was kind. “This seems like a private moment, but I’ll be around welcoming our crew and can hop right back here if you need me.” Libby nodded her appreciation, and he scooted away.
She eyed the pack, brought it to her face, and breathed in her father’s scent before settling it on her lap. The canvas was embedded with soil from every continent, stained, and smooth from use, its edges frayed.
Libby wondered what it might tell her about her pop, but she was afraid to look inside.
She was on this ship getting ready to embark on her first mission to the Faroe Islands in part to learn about her pop’s life aboard vessels just like this. She’d followed eagerly in his footsteps, becoming an eco-warrior dedicated to Earth’s oceans and the life contained in them, which meant she understood her father’s dedication.
What she didn’t understand was why he stopped coming home two years ago, or if he had any idea what his disappearance had done to her.
Joining this crew had given her a vague hope she might cross his path on a campaign though she’d lost track of him years ago and knew her chances were slim. But the courier rushing to deliver the news and her pop’s effects before they sailed had dashed her dreams and any likelihood of getting answers.
She twisted the fastener and pried open the main compartment. Her breath hitched. Libby stared at a familiar object. Questions flooded her mind. With a trembling hand, she pulled out the plushy white whale she’d gripped to her chest every story, and through every word of Moby Dick.
It crinkled… and she froze. Could it be? She ran her thumb along a seam on its belly. It split to reveal a piece of paper, just like the ones her pop hid for her in those days before a mission. Libby didn’t notice the toy falling off her lap as she read her message through tears she could no longer hold back.
Were I the wind, I’d blow no more on such a wicked and miserable world… Yet tis a noble and heroic thing, the wind!
You, my feisty shadow, are nobler. I’m proud of you for answering the call. But take care or you will find yourself with a target on your back. That’s why I stayed away, though I’ve been watching… and waiting for our time.
I’m sorry it took so long, and that I had to resort to such a cruel trick to sneak back to you.
A big, calloused hand laid the whale in her lap, and a beloved voice spoke above her head. “Hello, little shadow. Only my daughter treasures that line from Melville as much as her wayward father.”
If you would like to support an independent author who loves to share her stories, this story along with an eclectic anthology of more fun tales is available for $1.99 at your favorite bookstore. Thank you!
By D. L. Lewellyn 