Attempts at short fiction or explorations of an idea
This is a tester/introductions for a possible novel concept… Let me know what you think… The price of cheese was of great concern to Tybol, in the last few years it had more than doubled in price. Tybol liked cheese, it was a fantastic substance; versatile, elastic and even crumbly. He mulled over it as he walked down the road to the mall. Cheese on top of pasta or pizza, even as cheesecake.
The aim of the competition is to write the ending to a short story (in 100 words or less). The start of the story… Gillibert crept carefully up the stairs, his hairy clawed feet making little sound. He could see the light shining under the door ahead and knew that this was the right room. The door creaked loudly as he pushed his way inside, but he didn’t mind because he could see it now; the Gold Chest of Kerlami was within reach.
The dappled sunlight slowly warmed her bent figure. She curled her white clad body, as if she was attempting to remove herself from this reality entirely. Taut and rigid her body contracted, as if trying to wish away the fabric that swirled around her. Her hands, gloved in satin, clenched at the fresh ground. The power of her grasp pulled tufts of grass from the hard soil. Crushing the tufts left vivid green imprints in the memory of the fabric.
A rambling to Erin, August 2008 As a prophet once talked of his shoes. Many footsteps you will take, repairs you may need, and feet you will walk beside. He then proceeded to wear his only pair of shoes for the entire day, after repeating the experience many a time, he noticed something quite peculiar. They did start to smell. The prophet could not believe that the shoes he had doted over could do something so unpleasant.
A man ran down the gangway, neon lights pumped behind him. He sprinted even faster; sweat pouring off him in streams. His long hair undulated behind him. As he approached the final corner he slowed, breathing heavily, he brushed back his hair and stepped out onto the deck of the cruiser. “How can I help” he panted. “My Alesia received first degree burns and radiation poisoning when our computer miscalculated our Larange point vector,” the disheveled man cried.
It was a dark night. Green stars dotted the sky. Fog rolled slowly across the ground, unhurriedly, gently proceeding. Orange lines crossed the gloom, lighting, touching. The fog rolls, over the stands, more thickly now. People sit together, surrounded with blankets and wrapped up warm against the night. They hold each other, waiting. From the heavens, snow begins to fall. First one flake, then another, and another, shaped perfection. The people below look up and gaze.
The rough stone work was weathered and rough, the raw hewn stone was jagged. Chunks were missing. As the masked figure, swathed in the deepest of scarlet, climbed the wall, all that could be seen were white gloved fingers. It was dark so the figures features remained a mystery, if indeed there were any onlookers. With a careful precision, the strong fingers were moved up the wall into the nearest slip in the mortar.