After more than a month, it is time to close this round. Do not despair, there is still chance to save the competition and bring it back to the stars where it belongs! And the best way to do it is to vote and post such a lenghty feedbacks that all the Shakespearian academics and intellectuals reveling in searching for new and new meanings in Kubrick's flicks would stand in shame! You can do it!
Llandy, 969 words
Ruthven, 143 words
Lumos, 995 words
Dystopian, 492 words.
Llandy, 969 words
His fingers danced across the keyboard, his hands moving on autopilot as he called up the program he’d been using every night for the past three weeks. As soon as it began to load, he slipped the VR unit over his head, making sure the earphones were in place, that the visor was free of dust and scratches. Then, he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again he was no longer in his living room. He felt the chill of the night air against his skin, and looked down at his own virtual body. It was clad, as it always was, in clothes which were appropriate for this period, only this time they were more ornate than usual; gold embroidery climbed up the navy blue sleeves of his jacket like serpents winding around his arms, and white lace shot with silver thread adorned the throat of his shirt beneath his collar.
Music and laughter spilled out into the night. Looking up, he found himself outside a mansion, the austere grey brick at odds with the yellow light and the sound of merriment coming from within. Allowing his feet to carry him forward, he approached the open door, and was greeted by one of the servants.
“Lord Maxwell.” The man bowed low. “The Duke and Duchess have been awaiting your arrival. Please, enter.”
His mouth felt dry as he entered the building, and as if on cue another servant appeared carrying a try of champagne glasses. Maxwell took one and sipped at the gold-coloured liquid, allowing the bubbles and the taste of strong wine to explode over his tastebuds. The program really was very good. Few VR worlds he’d visited had displayed this painstaking attention to detail.
He found the function room easily enough; the layout of the building had not changed since his last visit. The music grew louder, and so did the voices; was it his imagination, or was the virtual alcohol going to his head? No, that couldn’t be. This wasn’t real. He hadn’t actually drunk anything.
Entering the function room, he let his eyes scan the crowd, and when he caught a glimpse of a crimson dress, he felt his heart catch in his throat. She was here. Months had passed in the program since their last encounter, though it had been only two weeks in the real world. Fourteen torturous days of dreaming of her, of wondering when, if ever, he would see her again, agonising over the fact that she may have been a one-time creation of the program, destined to cease her virtual existence once the program shut down.
She caught his eye, gave him a smouldering look, and when she was sure he was watching, she left the room via one of the alcove doors. He didn’t need to be told twice that this was an invitation. Setting down his half-empty glass, he followed her, the golden light fading to half-shadows as he stepped into the dimly lit hallway.
He found her not far away, seemingly focused on a painting; a hunting scene, horses and hounds. For a long moment he simply stood there watching her, marvelling at the tumble of her raven-black curls, taking in the sight of her porcelain-white features, the way the dress, more scarlet than crimson in the dim light, clung to her figure in a way that suggested more than it revealed. And he wondered, not for the first time, how a computer program could have created something as perfect as she.
“You have been in my thoughts often these past weeks, Lord Maxwell,” she said, her smoky voice sending a chill up his spine.
“And you in mine, Baroness,” he replied, stepping forward to stand beside her. This close, he could feel the heat of her body. God, this program was amazing!
She took a deep breath. “I fear my husband suspects. Baron Muniz may appear old, but his mind is as sharp as ever.” She turned to face him, her sapphire-blue eyes holding his gaze. Her lips, full and red, all but begged to be kissed, but he refrained. Chivalry was an important aspect of this time period, and to kiss her out of turn may cause her to flee forever.
“We have done nothing wrong,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so that it wouldn’t carry. On a whim, he reached out and cupped her cheek with his palm, feeling her skin as if it was flesh made real.
“The last time we spoke,” she said, “you told me you could take me away from here. To a place where my husband will never find me.”
“And that is still true. I just need more time to make the necessary arrangements.” He needed more time to identify the sub-routine within the program responsible for character creation. Then he’d be able to extract the data into his own simulation. Once free of her VR world, and her VR husband, he could keep her as his own forever.
“These things you speak of,” she said hesitantly. “Other worlds… other times… different realities… they scare me.”
“You don’t need to be afraid, Baroness. I will protect you. I will keep you safe. Once you are free, you and I can be together.”
“It sounds too good to be real.”
“It will be real,” he assured her. She allowed herself to be pulled into his arms, and he held her close to him, grateful that he’d found this program, grateful that the woman of his dreams had been waiting for him inside it, grateful that his position within the intelligence division gave him access to advanced computers which would help him free his love forever.
And held in the arms of the man she had been programmed to wait for, a smile played across the Baroness’ lips.
When he opened them again he was no longer in his living room. He felt the chill of the night air against his skin, and looked down at his own virtual body. It was clad, as it always was, in clothes which were appropriate for this period, only this time they were more ornate than usual; gold embroidery climbed up the navy blue sleeves of his jacket like serpents winding around his arms, and white lace shot with silver thread adorned the throat of his shirt beneath his collar.
Music and laughter spilled out into the night. Looking up, he found himself outside a mansion, the austere grey brick at odds with the yellow light and the sound of merriment coming from within. Allowing his feet to carry him forward, he approached the open door, and was greeted by one of the servants.
“Lord Maxwell.” The man bowed low. “The Duke and Duchess have been awaiting your arrival. Please, enter.”
His mouth felt dry as he entered the building, and as if on cue another servant appeared carrying a try of champagne glasses. Maxwell took one and sipped at the gold-coloured liquid, allowing the bubbles and the taste of strong wine to explode over his tastebuds. The program really was very good. Few VR worlds he’d visited had displayed this painstaking attention to detail.
He found the function room easily enough; the layout of the building had not changed since his last visit. The music grew louder, and so did the voices; was it his imagination, or was the virtual alcohol going to his head? No, that couldn’t be. This wasn’t real. He hadn’t actually drunk anything.
Entering the function room, he let his eyes scan the crowd, and when he caught a glimpse of a crimson dress, he felt his heart catch in his throat. She was here. Months had passed in the program since their last encounter, though it had been only two weeks in the real world. Fourteen torturous days of dreaming of her, of wondering when, if ever, he would see her again, agonising over the fact that she may have been a one-time creation of the program, destined to cease her virtual existence once the program shut down.
She caught his eye, gave him a smouldering look, and when she was sure he was watching, she left the room via one of the alcove doors. He didn’t need to be told twice that this was an invitation. Setting down his half-empty glass, he followed her, the golden light fading to half-shadows as he stepped into the dimly lit hallway.
He found her not far away, seemingly focused on a painting; a hunting scene, horses and hounds. For a long moment he simply stood there watching her, marvelling at the tumble of her raven-black curls, taking in the sight of her porcelain-white features, the way the dress, more scarlet than crimson in the dim light, clung to her figure in a way that suggested more than it revealed. And he wondered, not for the first time, how a computer program could have created something as perfect as she.
“You have been in my thoughts often these past weeks, Lord Maxwell,” she said, her smoky voice sending a chill up his spine.
“And you in mine, Baroness,” he replied, stepping forward to stand beside her. This close, he could feel the heat of her body. God, this program was amazing!
She took a deep breath. “I fear my husband suspects. Baron Muniz may appear old, but his mind is as sharp as ever.” She turned to face him, her sapphire-blue eyes holding his gaze. Her lips, full and red, all but begged to be kissed, but he refrained. Chivalry was an important aspect of this time period, and to kiss her out of turn may cause her to flee forever.
“We have done nothing wrong,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so that it wouldn’t carry. On a whim, he reached out and cupped her cheek with his palm, feeling her skin as if it was flesh made real.
“The last time we spoke,” she said, “you told me you could take me away from here. To a place where my husband will never find me.”
“And that is still true. I just need more time to make the necessary arrangements.” He needed more time to identify the sub-routine within the program responsible for character creation. Then he’d be able to extract the data into his own simulation. Once free of her VR world, and her VR husband, he could keep her as his own forever.
“These things you speak of,” she said hesitantly. “Other worlds… other times… different realities… they scare me.”
“You don’t need to be afraid, Baroness. I will protect you. I will keep you safe. Once you are free, you and I can be together.”
“It sounds too good to be real.”
“It will be real,” he assured her. She allowed herself to be pulled into his arms, and he held her close to him, grateful that he’d found this program, grateful that the woman of his dreams had been waiting for him inside it, grateful that his position within the intelligence division gave him access to advanced computers which would help him free his love forever.
And held in the arms of the man she had been programmed to wait for, a smile played across the Baroness’ lips.
Ruthven, 143 words
You couldn't even see the fingers on her left hand. A rhythmically hypnotic blur matched pick for strum by her right hand climbing around, stopping here, sliding up and jumping down, hyper energetic movement syncopated by sudden stops and sullen silences that seemed to last longer than the fraction of a second each carefully picked point was allocated, silence stretching in behind the pulls and bends. The strings of her banjo were shining and singing, the grass was green, her face was peace and concentration. She finished her song and smiled, everybody clapping and cheering. Her eyes met mine... Just for a second. Never have you ever seen a man woman or beast best her finesse, and still to this day I can see those eyes and hear her claws hammer in my head... That piece she played she titled: The Red Baroness.
Lumos, 995 words
I seat myself on my chair, pulling it closer to the desk, yet again grinding its legs against the wooden floor. I spend the next five minutes staring in the blinking cursor on the empty page, with that oh-so-painful feeling inside me.
My will to write is gone, dissipated the moment I decided to actually write anything. Again.
I saw her on the street the other day. I was picking up groceries from the corner store, and there she was, on the other side of the street, elegant as ever.
I abandoned everything and ran out… to see her, to catch her, to talk with her.
She was gone.
I keep dreaming of her every night. She’s always clad in red and amber, her dark eyes looking at me, as if to question me. When she smiles, I get this good feeling…
I’ve not written a book in over six years, as my best – and maybe only – friend James reminds me. “Get a hold of yourself,” he says. “For God’s sake, when did you last shave?!”
We’re on some sort of an official banquet sponsored by my publisher. I’m lucky I’m still invited; guess the several hundred thousand copies my first three books sold are enough for them not to discard me yet. I’m about to reply sharply, but then I see her – a woman with dark, short hair, dressed in red. I leave James standing, quickly walk over to her, I touch her shoulder, she turns around.
It’s not her.
“Sorry,” I say, with the entire world collapsing inside me. “I must’ve mistaken you for someone I know.” I feel miserable now, like every time I wake up.
“Still that woman you keep thinking about?” asks James when he enters the toilets a minute after me. I nod. “I thought she’d left you alone.”
I shake my head. Of course I’d lied to him, he kept dismissing her as something worthless. But I know I must meet her, I know I have to talk to her.
He sighs deeply.
“Look,” he says, and I know how he’s going to continue. “You do know your reputation and life are falling apart, don’t you? Stop thinking about this… mirage!”
I would if I could, I want to say. But I remain silent.
He shakes his head in disgust and leaves me alone.
Last night it was a nightmare. There we were, in some sort of a large room, a church? And there she was, in red as ever, looking at the frescos. I walk up to her, she notices me, I bow slightly with a smile on my face.
“Baroness,” I say, still smiling.
She doesn’t recognize me and is puzzled by my presence. Anxiety constricts my chest. I wake up and look at the clock, it’s 03:17. I couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
I sit at my desk again. The text editor is once again open and ready to record my thoughts, the cursor blinking friendly. I let out a sigh and start writing.
“It was on the twenty-seventh of March,” I write, and stop. I delete it.
“She was on the balcony when”
I delete this as well. The cursor blinks steadily, apparently not caring whether I write or delete or not. I look at it for a few seconds.
The chair’s legs grind against the parquet, white traces visible from all the times I’ve done it.
I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I remember that idea about a post-apocalyptic novel that Nick and me, both drunk, once had. I smile. That would be cheesier than “50 types of Grail”. I then think about the Baroness.
Detective story? Only if I want to call the book “Cliché”.
Fantasy? No.
I imagine her with a gas mask, vibro-knife and possibly a trench coat on. Maybe somehow related to Nazis. Hell no.
Am I mad? Probably.
Science fiction? No.
Adventure? Hm… No.
Drama? Nah.
Romance? How...? Obviously, NO.
I can’t find a genre. “I know,” says Alter Ego. Great, I reply, grinning sardonically. I’m now talking to myself. They say that this is a sure sign of insanity. “You’re not talking to yourself,” Alter Ego clarifies. “You’re talking to me.”
I definitely seem to be losing my mind. It’s quite funny, when you think about it.
Today I accidentally put my hand right above the steam whilst making my morning tea. The vapours of the boiling water hurt my hand. It’s odd how things you’re used to doing can leave a nasty impression once you accidentally err.
The next day I sat on my desk again, trying to shave off the least bit of flooring I could whilst moving the chair. I opened the text editor, took a deep breath and started mashing on the keyboard.
It was hard to form words, then sentences, then paragraphs. But I forced myself to go on.
I never found her. The Baroness.
I keep dreaming of her, but I try not to think about her too much. I try.
Sometimes I find myself crying in a corner in the bathroom, but I’m mostly all right. Alter Ego seems to not be “alter” indeed. It’s odd, and I can’t describe it.
So yeah, I never met the Baroness somewhere, never bumped into her accidentally. But I’ll keep an eye out.
I gave Nick a call, and we wrote that post-apocalyptic novel. It was received moderately well, so the publisher didn’t feel the need to discard me as a piece of rubbish.
I met a woman, and she is probably the most of the Baroness I will ever find. We’ve been going together for a while; I think we’ll be fine.
And maybe, maybe one day, I will actually meet the Baroness. And If I do, I’ll be sure to know what to tell her, because honestly, I’ve got no idea.
Until then, this text document can lie forgotten.
At least James stopped nagging me.
My will to write is gone, dissipated the moment I decided to actually write anything. Again.
I saw her on the street the other day. I was picking up groceries from the corner store, and there she was, on the other side of the street, elegant as ever.
I abandoned everything and ran out… to see her, to catch her, to talk with her.
She was gone.
I keep dreaming of her every night. She’s always clad in red and amber, her dark eyes looking at me, as if to question me. When she smiles, I get this good feeling…
I’ve not written a book in over six years, as my best – and maybe only – friend James reminds me. “Get a hold of yourself,” he says. “For God’s sake, when did you last shave?!”
We’re on some sort of an official banquet sponsored by my publisher. I’m lucky I’m still invited; guess the several hundred thousand copies my first three books sold are enough for them not to discard me yet. I’m about to reply sharply, but then I see her – a woman with dark, short hair, dressed in red. I leave James standing, quickly walk over to her, I touch her shoulder, she turns around.
It’s not her.
“Sorry,” I say, with the entire world collapsing inside me. “I must’ve mistaken you for someone I know.” I feel miserable now, like every time I wake up.
“Still that woman you keep thinking about?” asks James when he enters the toilets a minute after me. I nod. “I thought she’d left you alone.”
I shake my head. Of course I’d lied to him, he kept dismissing her as something worthless. But I know I must meet her, I know I have to talk to her.
He sighs deeply.
“Look,” he says, and I know how he’s going to continue. “You do know your reputation and life are falling apart, don’t you? Stop thinking about this… mirage!”
I would if I could, I want to say. But I remain silent.
He shakes his head in disgust and leaves me alone.
Last night it was a nightmare. There we were, in some sort of a large room, a church? And there she was, in red as ever, looking at the frescos. I walk up to her, she notices me, I bow slightly with a smile on my face.
“Baroness,” I say, still smiling.
She doesn’t recognize me and is puzzled by my presence. Anxiety constricts my chest. I wake up and look at the clock, it’s 03:17. I couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
I sit at my desk again. The text editor is once again open and ready to record my thoughts, the cursor blinking friendly. I let out a sigh and start writing.
“It was on the twenty-seventh of March,” I write, and stop. I delete it.
“She was on the balcony when”
I delete this as well. The cursor blinks steadily, apparently not caring whether I write or delete or not. I look at it for a few seconds.
The chair’s legs grind against the parquet, white traces visible from all the times I’ve done it.
I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I remember that idea about a post-apocalyptic novel that Nick and me, both drunk, once had. I smile. That would be cheesier than “50 types of Grail”. I then think about the Baroness.
Detective story? Only if I want to call the book “Cliché”.
Fantasy? No.
I imagine her with a gas mask, vibro-knife and possibly a trench coat on. Maybe somehow related to Nazis. Hell no.
Am I mad? Probably.
Science fiction? No.
Adventure? Hm… No.
Drama? Nah.
Romance? How...? Obviously, NO.
I can’t find a genre. “I know,” says Alter Ego. Great, I reply, grinning sardonically. I’m now talking to myself. They say that this is a sure sign of insanity. “You’re not talking to yourself,” Alter Ego clarifies. “You’re talking to me.”
I definitely seem to be losing my mind. It’s quite funny, when you think about it.
Today I accidentally put my hand right above the steam whilst making my morning tea. The vapours of the boiling water hurt my hand. It’s odd how things you’re used to doing can leave a nasty impression once you accidentally err.
The next day I sat on my desk again, trying to shave off the least bit of flooring I could whilst moving the chair. I opened the text editor, took a deep breath and started mashing on the keyboard.
It was hard to form words, then sentences, then paragraphs. But I forced myself to go on.
I never found her. The Baroness.
I keep dreaming of her, but I try not to think about her too much. I try.
Sometimes I find myself crying in a corner in the bathroom, but I’m mostly all right. Alter Ego seems to not be “alter” indeed. It’s odd, and I can’t describe it.
So yeah, I never met the Baroness somewhere, never bumped into her accidentally. But I’ll keep an eye out.
I gave Nick a call, and we wrote that post-apocalyptic novel. It was received moderately well, so the publisher didn’t feel the need to discard me as a piece of rubbish.
I met a woman, and she is probably the most of the Baroness I will ever find. We’ve been going together for a while; I think we’ll be fine.
And maybe, maybe one day, I will actually meet the Baroness. And If I do, I’ll be sure to know what to tell her, because honestly, I’ve got no idea.
Until then, this text document can lie forgotten.
At least James stopped nagging me.
Dystopian, 492 words.
What is the sea, wise men ponder. A god in physical form, a trapped spirit doomed to muteness? Perhaps it is an entity alien to all other pre-determined notions. A ship rocks on icy waters as men tend to its ever frustrating needs. The ship has a dark tone to its color, a hue that moves many that see it. The sides of the vessel are engraved with tales of old and forgotten victories. A man steps forward and assembles the crew.
"Remember lads we're out here to find Reynik's ship and that's all." An undetermined accent pinches every word as it leaves the speaker.
"I know that the Jarl didn't give you much information before we departed but I assure you-" A yell from above cuts off the speaker. "I can make out a ship through the fog, starboard!" The men cheer with present news, and the ship begins its course towards the mystery vessel. Cheers turn silent as they gain on the vessel. Men clad in chainmail board the ship and search for "Reynik" but find nothing, except a layer of char on the deck, but no flames to seen or heard. A shimmer runs through the crew, but they do find one old man in the hold. "He's drunk!" A man clad in chainmail explicates as he pushes the man over. "Ha!" the drunken old man snorts as he continues to speak. "You survived?" The old man says this in an almost condescending tone.
The crew has no time to question the man further before a tremor reverberates the ship violently, knocking all except the sturdiest down. All is silent, except for the old man. "You came for Reynik I suppose?" He continues drinking, "He's gone off with the Baroness'." Confusion appears on all the men's faces. The crew carry the drunk topside where another reverberation knocks them all down. "There's something in the depths!" In the distance a faint scaly limb could be made out. The leader of the crew grabs the old man furiously before asking, "What is happening?" The old man starts in a serious tone, "The Red Baroness doesn't take kindly to trespassers." The old man's form glows intensely as it completely disappears and out of the light flies a seagull. Panic rushes through the crew as they leave the mysterious vessel and board their own ship.
A spout of water shoots out of the ocean next to the two ships through which a red leviathan emerges. The creature was enormous with a scaly complexion, a dark reddened hue which matched the ship's own. The crew hastened their departure in an attempt to flee the creature which observes them, and continued to engulf the abandoned ship. The rest of the voyage continued uninterrupted until they returned to port. No one believed their story or even cared to hear it, though they did carve a new tale into the ship, and named it "The Red Baroness".
"Remember lads we're out here to find Reynik's ship and that's all." An undetermined accent pinches every word as it leaves the speaker.
"I know that the Jarl didn't give you much information before we departed but I assure you-" A yell from above cuts off the speaker. "I can make out a ship through the fog, starboard!" The men cheer with present news, and the ship begins its course towards the mystery vessel. Cheers turn silent as they gain on the vessel. Men clad in chainmail board the ship and search for "Reynik" but find nothing, except a layer of char on the deck, but no flames to seen or heard. A shimmer runs through the crew, but they do find one old man in the hold. "He's drunk!" A man clad in chainmail explicates as he pushes the man over. "Ha!" the drunken old man snorts as he continues to speak. "You survived?" The old man says this in an almost condescending tone.
The crew has no time to question the man further before a tremor reverberates the ship violently, knocking all except the sturdiest down. All is silent, except for the old man. "You came for Reynik I suppose?" He continues drinking, "He's gone off with the Baroness'." Confusion appears on all the men's faces. The crew carry the drunk topside where another reverberation knocks them all down. "There's something in the depths!" In the distance a faint scaly limb could be made out. The leader of the crew grabs the old man furiously before asking, "What is happening?" The old man starts in a serious tone, "The Red Baroness doesn't take kindly to trespassers." The old man's form glows intensely as it completely disappears and out of the light flies a seagull. Panic rushes through the crew as they leave the mysterious vessel and board their own ship.
A spout of water shoots out of the ocean next to the two ships through which a red leviathan emerges. The creature was enormous with a scaly complexion, a dark reddened hue which matched the ship's own. The crew hastened their departure in an attempt to flee the creature which observes them, and continued to engulf the abandoned ship. The rest of the voyage continued uninterrupted until they returned to port. No one believed their story or even cared to hear it, though they did carve a new tale into the ship, and named it "The Red Baroness".
