Writing Challenge ~ 16th - 30th June 2011

[Britwitch]

WRITING CHALLENGE ~ JUNE 2011 ~ PART TWO​

Here’s this month’s second prompt...

http://i173.photobucket.com/albums/w62/Britwitch/wc_june_2011_2.jpg​

You can involve the prompt itself in your piece and make your link to the prompt as obvious or as subtle as you like or use it simply as inspiration for something else. You can use part of the prompt, just one aspect of the image, or use it in its entirety.

The word limit for this challenge is 2,000 words and your submission can take whatever form you desire – poetry or prose, complete story or a vignette. Erotic or not, serious or light hearted, it’s whatever you want it to be!!

Post only your submissions in this thread, constructive comments and reviews are to be posted in the appropriately named – Writing Challenge Review Thread

The deadline for this month’s challenge is Thursday 30th June 2011, with the first prompt of July ‘going live’ on Saturday 2nd July!

Previous challenges and reviews can be found here.

Happy writing!

 

[fr33ks33k]

Slender steel and sudden stealth, stuck silently betwixt the ribs. No one ever murmurs of the murder til after coffins close their lids. The assassin's blade of choice, tucked within a cloak, a boot, a belt. Never once the victim screams, even as the killing blow is dealt. The glint of a keen edge is swallowed by shadow. The creak of oaken floorboards are silenced by steady steps. The target sleeps soundly, oblivious to the danger creeping near. The moment just before the lethal stroke is filled with trepidation; one final drawn breath to still the nerves, defeat the fear.

Slender steel and sudden stealth, retreating on the fleeting shadows, drawing shorter in the sunrise. No one ever murmurs of the murder, they sing its praises to the skies. The cruel king of long and terrible reign is dead and gone. The assassin is a hero, vengeful angel, arbiter of freedom. His legend will be spoken in shadow only, but it will forever live on.

 

[marauder13]

[OOC: This piece draws heavily on concepts and ideas from the Mage: The Ascension RPG by White Wolf.]

Johnathon Prescott stared at the plain unadorned blade that glinted in the soft light. It was so unlike any other of it's sister blades. Plain, functional and deadly. Not ornate. Not with some unusual line or shape to the edge.

He pulled his hand back into his lap, stopping it from yet again reaching out to claim the weapon that beckoned to his awakened soul. He could feel the connection between them from his previous lives. He felt the echoes of the times that they together ended lives that had reached the point of no return. He felt the blade urging him to take that path once more, and fulfill their mutual reasons for existence.

"No. Doing that is admitting failure. Why cull when one can cure with the same talents? That is what I do now. I find those in danger before they are lost. I change their paths so they are not candidates for the good death. I stop the damage done to themselves and others before it happens."

Cool, determined dedication to duty rolled off the blade. Even to Johnathon's arcane senses, there was no malice coming from the blade. He could only sense the call to let it do its duty. Johnathon pulled his hand back gain, leaping from his chair. He put a greater distance between him and the blade. His hands covered his face, his body scrunched up tight against itself.

Mist filled the cobbled streets. The cold heavy air seemed to push at his skin. Hardly any noises reached his ears through the darkened gloom about him. He tilted his head to one side and down, pausing. His eyes rose to stare straight ahead. The smile blossomed with grace. The white air swallowed the sounds on his footfalls as he set off after his target.

Fortune granted the target many gifts. Each of them capable of helping his fellow man, while increasing his personal good fortune in return. ut he squandered it, blinded by his own greed. With each passing day, the damage to The Wheel, and his own soul, was increasing. His soul would not be ale to recover for many cycles, if at all, if he continued his current path. That was why he was now a target, and would feel the touch of the blade.

Senses augmented by talents awakened by his brothers, lessons taught over many years and an outlook that was altered all came together to bring him closer to the one task that was deemed the most sacred of them all. He bore no malice for the target. He did have remorse for what was about to happen, and why it was to happen. He felt no joy in what he was about to do. Taking of a life was not enjoyable, regardless of who they were. But he would see it done, for all of those that would suffer if he didn't.

The target appeared in the gloom. Short, stout, richly dressed and full of arrogance and false self-importance. As always, he had a moment of self doubt. 'Is this right? Must I kill this man to fix some cosmic flaw? What if I am wrong?' The same questions came to him. 'This doubt is good to have.' The memories of his mentor's voice soothed his troubled mind. 'To question is always good, as long as the answer feel right. If there is ever real doubt, then it is not the time for the sacred act.' He allowed himself to ask the question once more. The words sank into his heart and soul. He felt the turmoil of the question, then the reassurance of the answer.

He took two steps forward, slapping his hand over the man's chubby mouth, drawing his head back enough to allow the clear passage of the blade across his throat. He held the dying target, hearing the rain of life on the stones as the moving body he held grew still. Knowing the target was now one with the Wheel once more, he lowered the body to the street, laying him flat on his back, closing the dead man's eyes.

"May God see you safely to where you need to be, and absolve you of your sins due to the Rite you have been through." He crossed himself, releasing the spell that would wash away the stains of corruption from his body, reflecting the same cleansing on the soon to depart soul.

He stood up, taking one last look at the man he had slain, then walked back to his home to complete with the Rite he started when he gave the Good Death.

"Don't you think I know what we have done together in the past? How many times I carried you in hand and removed an impediment to the turning of The Wheel?" Johnathon turned to look at the blade. Unmoved from the red velvet cloth that had been its blanket, its shroud for the past one hundred years, it sat patiently. Johnathon knew it harboured no intelligence as some other artifacts did, but over the centuries it had developed an awareness of itself and the one it was bonded too. Johnathon could feel it react to his emotions as a loyal dog would in the presence of its master. Johnathon fought the feeling that the blade was trying to calm him down, appeal to some serenity that the static blade possessed.

"Times like this, I think I am mad for believing I can change the world in ways beyond those of normal people. That I hallucinate everything I see when I invoke my arcane talents. Here am I talking to myself as if a bloody dagger can understand me!" He walked over to the drinks cabinet. One door swung open sharply to allow him access to the tumbler and decanter within. He poured a generous amount of the amber fluid, drawing half of it out of the glass before the decanter was put down. The eye watering fire that scorched his throat and blasted his stomach seemed to bring him back from the precipice. He turned to look at the blade once more, leaning back against the cabinet.

"The moment I saw you, I knew what you were. I knew what you meant." He took a quick sip. "I knew what we had done together. I was sickened at the thought of what we did together. I felt every one of those lives passing me. I felt the blood. I felt the resistance of the flesh as you passed through them. I know back then, I didn't mind doing it, because it needed to be done. Not now, though. I can do more by changing a life than taking one. My weapons are words, letters and laws. Courtroom battles and private meetings have replaced actual battles and private killings. I have no further need for you in this lifetime."

"I know you helped the police and the D.A. try to put me away, but you weren't good enough, lawyer man." Johnathon stood as the thinning haired man mountain loomed over him. "But there was just enough doubt there that I had killed them. Well, doubt in the minds of the jury folk. But there is no doubt anywhere else is there?"

"No, none at all."

"Then you'd best be careful in future. You might decide to drop someone you shouldn't, and they'll not be so nice to you afterward like me. You are too weak for me to worry about. Not worth my time working up a sweat."

"Then you would be very wrong, Max. I could make you sweat very easily."

The large, meaty hand slammed into Johnathon's shoulder twice as Max bellowed a deep, belly laugh before he walked away. Five people were dead because of him, and a mere technicality had got the crucial evidence thrown out of court.

"Ohh... very clever. No. I am NOT taking you up, and looking for Max Sumner, nor any of the others that slipped through the cracks. There are others who will far more happily remove him from the gene pool. Plus, I would enjoy killing him too much. It took three months before the pain left my shoulder after that incident." Johnathon was standing before the small table that housed the blade. His abdomen rose and fell violently. He stared at the blade, his mind devoid of all thought. The black spiral of the leather grip was as smooth as it was the day it was finally crafted. Not on scratch, nick or blemish marred the actual blade itself. He knew that the edge was razor sharp and there was little on Earth that would dull it. The guard and pommel of the dagger were clean and the simple decorations unfaded. Johnathon knew that it would fit his hand perfectly.

"I have not learned any fighting skills in my current life." He drained the glass, shooting the blade a cheeky smile once he finished. "I would be useless to you. The first use, and I would be in jail for the rest of my life and you would be locked away again." Johnathon shook his head. "You found me too late. I'm too set in my ways to become the killer that you need."

The moment that Johnathon's fingers caressed the leather, he tried to pull his hand away. But his body was listening to another part of his mind, one that carried over from his previous journeys through life. His hand curled around the handle, confirming his suspicions about the fit. He lifted the blade, looking at his reflection in the metal.

"You know, maybe I could make one exception, just for Max."

 

[Last_Rider]

It seemed as if everyone was ignoring the man as he sat against the pillar. He was wearing a black coat, with a hood low over his face and dealing cards to himself as the people moved around him. The only part of him that moved was one hand, peeling a card from the top of the deck and laying it down, maybe moving a few around. If anyone had bothered to actually look at the scene it would seem quite surreal.

A small child walked over, standing close to the man, watching with that bizarre intensity only small children can muster. The man paid the child no heed, still dealing cards onto his lap. After a minute or so the child looked at the man and spoke.

"Watcha doin'?"

The man's head didn't move, there was almost no indication that he even heard the words except that he replied.

"Playing cards."

The child cocked his head, examining the piles in the mans lap.

"Doesn't look like any game I've seen. Can you show me?"

Again the hooded figure made no motion except to deal another card from the deck.

"No, it's a very complicated thing. Each card matters, as does its position in the piles."

"So there's lots of work. That doesn't sound very fun."

"Perhaps not, but it's important."

Now the child was scowling in great through, eyes fixed on the piles as if trying to discern what could be so important.

"Why?"

A bit of a smile could be heard in the mans voice this time. Whether he was actually smiling or not was impossible to discern, it could be he was scowling but his voice gave no hint of it.

"Because, games like this decide things. Some are small, others large, but all are important."

The child was sitting now, watching the cards.

"Well, I'll help then."

Nothing more was said for a few minutes, but the child never took his eyes from the cards as they were dealt. While he clearly didn't understand the game he devoted all his attentions to it. The deck was becoming quite slim, eventually down to the last card. The man paused, then handed it to the child. The child looked at it quizzically.

"That one is yours."

"But I don't know the game."

"That's ok. Just place it where you think it goes."

"You said this made things, um, figured them out."

The barest inclination of the hood indicated the man had heard. Beyond that he remained still, waiting as the child looked at the card in his hand and the piles. Some were on the mans lap, some on the tiled floor. His eyes moved between them, frowning slightly in great concentration.

A woman called the child, shattering his concentration as she beckoned him to come with her. Happy to oblige the child dropped the card and waved to his playmate before heading off to join his mother. The hood moved again, the man looking at the card. He didn't move for a bit, absorbing the pattern of the cards, then gathered them up in a swirl of hands, destroying the pattern that had been created. Once the deck was reassembled and back in his jacket he stood and walked out of the building.

The child saw his friend and waved, smiling from inside the car as he and his mother pulled out into traffic. The man lifted one hand towards the child as he started walking down the street.

Five minutes later there was an electrical malfunction, it sparked a fire on the top floor. Five people were admitted to the local hospital for second degree burns, dozens were treated for smoke inhalation, and there was a substantial amount of property damage.

No one died.