This here is a ****ing flash fiction fight, folks. Since this board has some lack of lovin', this "week" we've got only two entries in a shocking head to head battle that is sure to, like, amaze and stuff because like, the writing is really good you know?
But anyways. The topic was the Bugatti Step chosen by our lord and writer BenKenobi (who didn't turn in a story and must be therefore looked down upon) and the (rather loose) interpretations of this topic are as follows:
Lumos
Ruthven
Go forth and cast your votes! Don't forget to write in next time; at this point I would see a slight lapse in quality if that meant an increase in entries every week. Creativity doesn't need to be refined! Raw five-minute-writ stories are welcome.
But anyways. The topic was the Bugatti Step chosen by our lord and writer BenKenobi (who didn't turn in a story and must be therefore looked down upon) and the (rather loose) interpretations of this topic are as follows:
Lumos
Elisa looked to the horizon as the haze mirages drifted around her. Far away she could see the rocky overhangs which she’d venture under tomorrow. She crouched and felt the road under her fingers. It was an old one indeed, and fine cracks webbed all over it. The soil on the side was reddish, dry, and crumbled softly in her grasp.
“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” Elisa stood up.
“I still ain’t certain it’s a good idea,” frowned Jaroslav.
“We’ve discussed this… There isn’t a better plan yet, is it?”
“No, but…”
“Stop it, then.”
Jaroslav didn’t say anything, but his expression was clear enough.
“Come on,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “Let’s move out.”
The crowds had intensified, and they didn’t seem to care about the heat.
“At least they’ll have a hard time moving around,” Jaroslav grinned whilst they made their way around a particularly noisy and cheerful group of tourists. Elisa smiled and opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a couple of the tourists who happily yelled something unintelligible at them and forced a wreath each on their heads.
“Wha…?” The tourists had already turned their attention towards some of the other passers-by and her question remained unanswered.
Jaroslav was laughing, his wreath almost falling from his head.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing,” he smiled. “I think it suits you quite well.”
She reached up to feel her wraith placed abysmally as well. She adjusted it with a forced stern expression that only made him laugh harder, then burst out laughing as well. The Festival was getting to them, apparently.
“Come on, we need to get back.”
They kept elbowing people on their way back.
When they finally reached the hotel near the port, the sun had neared the horizon and sent its last spasmatic heat waves in its dying breath. The moderate coolness of the anteroom was like medbalm to their skin and they both let out a deep sigh. Except the wreaths, they also had some garlands around their necks, and Jaroslav also carried a large paper umbrella which was actually pretty useless, but who someone had pushed into his hands.
“You look ridiculous,” grunted Elisa with laughter as she looked at him. He smiled.
“You’re not much different either.”
They waited for their body temperatures to normalise before entering the cool entrance room of the hotel.
“Dinner?”
“Sure.”
“How’s your new kidney holding up?”
“It’s fine, don’t worry. I barely feel it nowadays.”
“So, let’s talk about this one last time,” he said, sitting himself on the sofa. The pen and paper were on the table, right where he’d left them. Untouched, as always.
She nodded from the windowsill; the view of the crowded small city in the night was fantastic, but she hadn’t opened the window as it was still too hot.
“So, you complete this race, then we take the beamship same evening, and Chiron’s men arrive three days late and lose our tracks.”
She turned to look at him. His face was serious.
“Pretty much. Though it’s probably not going to be as easy as just saying it, you know.”
“I know.” There was a pause. “You’ll have to finish first or second.”
She nodded again, then shook her head. “Third also gives us enough cash for tickets.”
“But you wouldn’t abandon the Type 35, would you? Third place won’t give you enough cash to take it with us.” She shook her head again.
They stood in silence for a bit, then she nodded at the paper sheets.
“Anything?”
“Nothing. Still nothing.” There was slight despair in his voice.
“You’ll be fine,” she said softly.
“You too, tomorrow.”
She smiled.
“I’ll be going to bed,” he stated after a short pause and stood up. “You should also; you ought to rest before the big day.”
“Yep, I’ll be off in a bit as well.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“See you.”
The crowds seemed to have multiplied tenfold, as if everyone on Liberation, along with a million tourists from thirty systems had cramped up together in the capital to witness the first event of the Festival: the Race.
It was traditional for the Festival to kick off with the Race, and whilst the names had never been imaginative, winning the race granted enough money for a content life. Money enough to warrant two tickets and a lot of space in the cargo hold of a beamship leaving the same evening.
The vehicles were lined up behind the start, with Elisa’s Type 35 not making too much of an impression – the others also had professional gear, and, most certainly, the experience needed to pull the race off. And what a Race it was: crevices, canyons, cliffs, and dragonmoths on the rocky overhangs. On average, two of every seven pilots made it through alive.
He found her by the starting line and made it there through the deafeningly cheering crowd occupying the tribunes and every other free centimeter.
“Eliška!”
She smiled when she saw him, but he was serious. He caught her hand.
“I know you can win. But hear me, even if you don’t win, just stay alive. I know it’s been hard for you ever since Vincent died, but I need you here, with me, got it?”
She nodded.
“What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Well… last night, I… I composed.”
“But that’s wonderful!”
“ONE MINUTE TO LAUNCH,” exclaimed the announcer through the stationary widespeakers. “ALL PILOTS RETURN TO VEHICLES!”
“I… I wrote it for you.”
She smiled again, and her gaze, fixed on his wary eyes, became brighter.
“Just don’t leave me, okay?” he kept on.
“Relax,” she said cheerfully. For a moment their fingers entwined. “I’ve got this.”
“Go,” he smiled. “I’ll wait right here.”
She slid her visor down. Wind conditions, humidity, temperature, all data feeds were working.
THREE SECONDS.
System checks complete.
TWO SECONDS.
He’d composed for her.
ONE SECOND.
Fuel injectors engaged.
START.
The vehicles dashed off, their thundering roar accompanied by the ecstatic yelling of the crowd.
“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” Elisa stood up.
“I still ain’t certain it’s a good idea,” frowned Jaroslav.
“We’ve discussed this… There isn’t a better plan yet, is it?”
“No, but…”
“Stop it, then.”
Jaroslav didn’t say anything, but his expression was clear enough.
“Come on,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “Let’s move out.”
The crowds had intensified, and they didn’t seem to care about the heat.
“At least they’ll have a hard time moving around,” Jaroslav grinned whilst they made their way around a particularly noisy and cheerful group of tourists. Elisa smiled and opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a couple of the tourists who happily yelled something unintelligible at them and forced a wreath each on their heads.
“Wha…?” The tourists had already turned their attention towards some of the other passers-by and her question remained unanswered.
Jaroslav was laughing, his wreath almost falling from his head.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing,” he smiled. “I think it suits you quite well.”
She reached up to feel her wraith placed abysmally as well. She adjusted it with a forced stern expression that only made him laugh harder, then burst out laughing as well. The Festival was getting to them, apparently.
“Come on, we need to get back.”
They kept elbowing people on their way back.
When they finally reached the hotel near the port, the sun had neared the horizon and sent its last spasmatic heat waves in its dying breath. The moderate coolness of the anteroom was like medbalm to their skin and they both let out a deep sigh. Except the wreaths, they also had some garlands around their necks, and Jaroslav also carried a large paper umbrella which was actually pretty useless, but who someone had pushed into his hands.
“You look ridiculous,” grunted Elisa with laughter as she looked at him. He smiled.
“You’re not much different either.”
They waited for their body temperatures to normalise before entering the cool entrance room of the hotel.
“Dinner?”
“Sure.”
“How’s your new kidney holding up?”
“It’s fine, don’t worry. I barely feel it nowadays.”
“So, let’s talk about this one last time,” he said, sitting himself on the sofa. The pen and paper were on the table, right where he’d left them. Untouched, as always.
She nodded from the windowsill; the view of the crowded small city in the night was fantastic, but she hadn’t opened the window as it was still too hot.
“So, you complete this race, then we take the beamship same evening, and Chiron’s men arrive three days late and lose our tracks.”
She turned to look at him. His face was serious.
“Pretty much. Though it’s probably not going to be as easy as just saying it, you know.”
“I know.” There was a pause. “You’ll have to finish first or second.”
She nodded again, then shook her head. “Third also gives us enough cash for tickets.”
“But you wouldn’t abandon the Type 35, would you? Third place won’t give you enough cash to take it with us.” She shook her head again.
They stood in silence for a bit, then she nodded at the paper sheets.
“Anything?”
“Nothing. Still nothing.” There was slight despair in his voice.
“You’ll be fine,” she said softly.
“You too, tomorrow.”
She smiled.
“I’ll be going to bed,” he stated after a short pause and stood up. “You should also; you ought to rest before the big day.”
“Yep, I’ll be off in a bit as well.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“See you.”
The crowds seemed to have multiplied tenfold, as if everyone on Liberation, along with a million tourists from thirty systems had cramped up together in the capital to witness the first event of the Festival: the Race.
It was traditional for the Festival to kick off with the Race, and whilst the names had never been imaginative, winning the race granted enough money for a content life. Money enough to warrant two tickets and a lot of space in the cargo hold of a beamship leaving the same evening.
The vehicles were lined up behind the start, with Elisa’s Type 35 not making too much of an impression – the others also had professional gear, and, most certainly, the experience needed to pull the race off. And what a Race it was: crevices, canyons, cliffs, and dragonmoths on the rocky overhangs. On average, two of every seven pilots made it through alive.
He found her by the starting line and made it there through the deafeningly cheering crowd occupying the tribunes and every other free centimeter.
“Eliška!”
She smiled when she saw him, but he was serious. He caught her hand.
“I know you can win. But hear me, even if you don’t win, just stay alive. I know it’s been hard for you ever since Vincent died, but I need you here, with me, got it?”
She nodded.
“What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Well… last night, I… I composed.”
“But that’s wonderful!”
“ONE MINUTE TO LAUNCH,” exclaimed the announcer through the stationary widespeakers. “ALL PILOTS RETURN TO VEHICLES!”
“I… I wrote it for you.”
She smiled again, and her gaze, fixed on his wary eyes, became brighter.
“Just don’t leave me, okay?” he kept on.
“Relax,” she said cheerfully. For a moment their fingers entwined. “I’ve got this.”
“Go,” he smiled. “I’ll wait right here.”
She slid her visor down. Wind conditions, humidity, temperature, all data feeds were working.
THREE SECONDS.
System checks complete.
TWO SECONDS.
He’d composed for her.
ONE SECOND.
Fuel injectors engaged.
START.
The vehicles dashed off, their thundering roar accompanied by the ecstatic yelling of the crowd.
Ruthven
He stood at the window, looking out over the twinkling city lights and the great shadow of the mountain looming silent behind them. Far below the apartment he noticed people walking, enjoying the evening and the returning warmth of spring.
He turned his attention back to the room, his guests scattered in groups of threes and fours, wine goblets in hand and bright eyes reflecting the warm, energetic light cast by the lights he had finished installing only a week before. He admired, as he had been doing frequently, his own handiwork and his taste in fixture; clear glass bulbs with twisting filaments hanging at varying lengths from the cream-coloured ceiling, casting bright orange light against the subtle blue walls. Most of the aesthetic choices he had made in his apartment had been, apparently, disastrous, but he forgave himself these errors of taste for how much sweeter the compliments on his lights seemed after so many misguided failures. Once his beloved Marjorie had passed, he couldn't bear to see the living room the way she had made it, beautiful and cozy, and put together with such grace even he could see the masterpiece his wife had created. Peaceful as it was, it was simply too... Marjorie for him to leave it as it was, a constant reminder of the beauty that had once filled his life and soul.
There was a Marjorie here tonight, as well. An old friend he had worked with years ago, and someone who had been a great comfort after his wife's death, even despite the feelings her name brought up. Maggie, he would call her, and she graciously accepted the nickname without comment or argument. He glanced over to where she was sitting, propped up on an (admittedly ugly) armchair next to the radio, in the company of his elderly neighbor Sheilah and Sheilah's nephew, Nicholas.
Maggie had always loved him, he knew. Once, and only once, he had allowed Maggie to comfort him the way she always desired, and he was grateful... It did not, in his mind, insult his own Marjorie's memory to be with her. It was the circumstance, really. He did not have any feelings of romanticism for Maggie, nor indeed any particular attraction to her. She was not difficult to look at, but ever since he met Marjorie, he had never looked desirably at another woman and he knew he would not do so for the rest of his life. Maggie had simply been a way to calm his nerves, a distraction he needed for what he owed the rest of the poor souls with whom his own lost spirit must continue to interact.
He wandered over to the radio and increased the volume by a fraction, trying to coax his mind away from the memories of life when life had been something he wanted to live. He looked once more at his guests, about seventeen in all, filling the lifeless space that was his home. Some seemed to be watching their neighbors intently, eyes wide open and mouths closed firmly, others seemingly smiling or simply staring ahead blankly, mouths hanging open. He picked up his own still full glass, and, stepping over puddles of red wine and spilled blood, he made his way to the bedroom, with only the sounds of jazz on the radio and the silence of his guests behind him. Suicide had pulled at his mind every time he opened his eyes in the morning, but he couldn't leave this world with so many people still vying for his attention, his friendship, his business. But now, after so many months of loneliness, he could slip away clear of conscience, and see his beloved again.
He turned his attention back to the room, his guests scattered in groups of threes and fours, wine goblets in hand and bright eyes reflecting the warm, energetic light cast by the lights he had finished installing only a week before. He admired, as he had been doing frequently, his own handiwork and his taste in fixture; clear glass bulbs with twisting filaments hanging at varying lengths from the cream-coloured ceiling, casting bright orange light against the subtle blue walls. Most of the aesthetic choices he had made in his apartment had been, apparently, disastrous, but he forgave himself these errors of taste for how much sweeter the compliments on his lights seemed after so many misguided failures. Once his beloved Marjorie had passed, he couldn't bear to see the living room the way she had made it, beautiful and cozy, and put together with such grace even he could see the masterpiece his wife had created. Peaceful as it was, it was simply too... Marjorie for him to leave it as it was, a constant reminder of the beauty that had once filled his life and soul.
There was a Marjorie here tonight, as well. An old friend he had worked with years ago, and someone who had been a great comfort after his wife's death, even despite the feelings her name brought up. Maggie, he would call her, and she graciously accepted the nickname without comment or argument. He glanced over to where she was sitting, propped up on an (admittedly ugly) armchair next to the radio, in the company of his elderly neighbor Sheilah and Sheilah's nephew, Nicholas.
Maggie had always loved him, he knew. Once, and only once, he had allowed Maggie to comfort him the way she always desired, and he was grateful... It did not, in his mind, insult his own Marjorie's memory to be with her. It was the circumstance, really. He did not have any feelings of romanticism for Maggie, nor indeed any particular attraction to her. She was not difficult to look at, but ever since he met Marjorie, he had never looked desirably at another woman and he knew he would not do so for the rest of his life. Maggie had simply been a way to calm his nerves, a distraction he needed for what he owed the rest of the poor souls with whom his own lost spirit must continue to interact.
He wandered over to the radio and increased the volume by a fraction, trying to coax his mind away from the memories of life when life had been something he wanted to live. He looked once more at his guests, about seventeen in all, filling the lifeless space that was his home. Some seemed to be watching their neighbors intently, eyes wide open and mouths closed firmly, others seemingly smiling or simply staring ahead blankly, mouths hanging open. He picked up his own still full glass, and, stepping over puddles of red wine and spilled blood, he made his way to the bedroom, with only the sounds of jazz on the radio and the silence of his guests behind him. Suicide had pulled at his mind every time he opened his eyes in the morning, but he couldn't leave this world with so many people still vying for his attention, his friendship, his business. But now, after so many months of loneliness, he could slip away clear of conscience, and see his beloved again.
Go forth and cast your votes! Don't forget to write in next time; at this point I would see a slight lapse in quality if that meant an increase in entries every week. Creativity doesn't need to be refined! Raw five-minute-writ stories are welcome.
