The Official CTF Monthly Writing Challenge

[Marley]

Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, robots and writers of all shapes and sizes gather round!

 

Welcome to the Official CTF Monthly Writing Challenge!

 

*Grandiose Theme Music*

 

Alright guys, so I've heard it expressed a number of times in the last few years that many of see RPGs (my personal writing love) not only as a fun thing to do on the weekends (weekdays, wee hours of the night, on an iphone while in class...) but also as a way to improve our writing skills. The monthly challenge thread is really just a way to continue on in that tradition. I'm calling it a 'challenge' instead of a competition because while we certainly can discuss each others work, the point here is more for growth and improvement than any reward. Constructive criticism is encouraged here, but remember that at the end of the day the whole purpose of this particular forum is for a group of friends to write in a positive environment.

 

Right. Here's how things are gonna run:

 

On the 1st of each month (or close to it), I or another member with my permission will post a writing prompt or challenge for everyone to work on. Anyone can post an entry for that particular challenge anytime during that period (from one 1st to the next) but on the 1st of the next month, when the next challenge is issued that particular challenge will be closed. If there's enough interest,  this may become a bi-weekly challenge and then things would turn over on the 1st and the 15th. 

 

Rules:

 

1. Unless otherwise stated, submissions should not exceed what can fit in one post on this forum. This isn't an insubstantial amount by any means but you should keep this in mind when making your submissions.

 

2. Entries may take any form. Short stories are wonderful. Poetry? Lovely! Fanfic? Go right ahead! (However, if you arn't using your original characters please state so at the top of your post). All genres and subjects are game (so long as it's CTF appropriate) and you're free to write however you wish! This thread is supposed to be about growing as a writer! No matter what medium that takes. 

 

3. Watch your formatting. None of ya'll are bad at this, but these entries could potentially get long and giant blocks of text are hard to read. Keep in mind how the entry will read.

 

4. No Off Topic in entry posts! An entry is an entry only! However, feel free to discuss the current months challenge as much as you want in the thread. <3

 

5. Don't be afraid to asks questions or offer ideas for new prompts! Honestly, I've got about four or five 'challenges' in mind but I would love to hear your ideas! Especially since I don't really know what type of challenges y'all are looking for.

 

6. Entry is, of course, always optional. You don't have to submit an entry every month and its really no big deal if you never submit any at all. At this time, there arn't really "Winners" per say, but if this is something people want we can incorporate it in the future. 

 

7. Every entry needs to include three things at the top in bold. 1. The title of the piece, 2. The Challenge Month and 3. The Challenge name. This is mainly so it's easier to see what's up.

 

And thats it!

 

So now.... *drumroll*..... The first official CTF Monthly Writing Challenge!

Edited November 2, 2015 by Marley

[Marley]

**This Challenge is Now CLOSED**

 

November 2015

Darkness and Light

 

In the light we read the inventions of others in the darkness we invent our own stories.     -- Alberto Manguel

 

 

Darkness and light have been used as symbols in world literature throughout human history, from the divine proclamation of “Let there be light” in the first book of the Bible, to harrowing passages of loss in contemporary literature. Darkness and light in the classical canon typically represent two opposing forces of nature, whether good and evil, knowledge and ignorance, love and hate or happiness and despair.

 

For this challenge, I want you to consider light and darkness. I wanted to keep this first challenge very very broad and as the I was noticing how quick it's starting to get dark in the evenings (that's winter for ya) I had the thought that this was a topic that could appeal to most anyone. Please try to submit new work (not something you've written previously). You can also draw inspiration from the above picture, if you want, but that is not required. Have fun! 

Edited December 1, 2015 by Marley

[paraskeve]

Name of the entry: "Mixed colors"

November 2015, Darkness and Light.

 

Growing up in the country; no harder than the city, easier a lot of the time. Except for the lights.

The lights; they've been in my place for as long as I remember. They take people sometimes, I just never thought it would happen to my family. It was hard, now, not so much.

The lights; how can I describe them now? They're bright, and dark. A blinding, fierce light on the outside, and yet something darker than anything ever made in the middle. Like a magical glass ball from Merlin; and he's fiction.

I was two: I went outside in a rampaging toddler stage, and found them. They stared at me, they thought about me, and somehow left me alone. After that, my parents always told me what would happen to those who go outside in the dark. 'they were found as if someone finely diced them, and then smashed the pieces with a heavy club.' Of course, I listened, and didn't go outside again until I was nineteen. 

Nineteen; the equivalent of manhood/womanhood, and the victim, sorry, adult; gets left outside to face the lights. The unworthy get killed, the worthy, they live. they survive until the lights decide that they're corrupt; and then they are killed.  

I was booted out with a small carving knife, and a lot of tears and kisses that were finally restrained from my dad; who was also crying. Maybe they somehow knew what would happen next.

 

The lights found me instantly, and surrounded me, making me with the hottest sunlight I've ever felt, but at the same time, the blackest, I was also made with the most forbidding darkness ever felt at the same time; like I was boiled and iced at the same time; and also not unlike a sword put in the fire and then dumped into water. Hissss.

I couldn't look up or down, just in front of me, but at the same time, I knew. I was the light; I was unworthy. And so were my parents.

 

All sense of emotion was stolen from me, and all of us burst down the door to where they were; crying and sitting by the fire. We all let them see our human forms; only a moment, and yet they understood what happened.

But they did not accept it gladly. Why? Why?

We took them in the painful way; beaten, clubbed, sliced and diced. And at the same time, we repeated the same sentence, over and over again. "You are unworthy. You are unworthy. You. Are. Unworthy."

Finally, when the blood-red dawn arose, we gained two more lights to our armada; and slipped into the ground, hiding within the long-dead corpses of our grandfathers and grandmothers.

 

We will rise again tonight.

 

Beware.

Edited November 2, 2015 by paraskeve

[paraskeve]

EDIT. My story has grammatical errors, and I will fix those, other than that, I view it as perfect. xP/xD

Wow... I wrote this as; "this + this + this = OMG I HAVE TO WRITE!" And I honestly did not know the plotline ahead of time. xD It was AMAZING!

I am extremely proud of it, so no bashing, or else I'll retaliate. 

Edited November 2, 2015 by paraskeve

[Jesusismyticket]

I usually write songs and the picture above is pretty haunting so I came up with this.

 

Sight of the Light

 

Month 1

 

Verse 1:

Can you see it creeping out your door

Don't know where you're going anymore

Lost in the darkness without a sound

Feel your heart beating outside your chest

Feels like you're losing your sanity again

But you can see a dim light up ahead

Don't lose sight of your hope

Don't give up on finding a way out

Of this nightmare you live in

Walk among the trees

Lights will guide you where you need to be

 

Chorus:

Just don't lose sight of the light

Don't lose the hope in your eyes

Keep going forward

Don't forget there's a light inside of you

Don't let the darkness take over you

Don't let it consume who you are

There's still hope for everyone

Keep walking on

 

Verse 2:

For every darkness there is a light

And it's getting closer now

For every set back you had

There is now a lightning bug shining above you

The war isn't over yet

But you haven't given up the fight

And you keep on walking

To find that light inside of you

May God shine that light upon you

 

Chorus:

Just don't lose sight of the light

Don't lose the hope in your eyes

Keep going forward

Don't forget there's a light inside of you

Don't let the darkness take over you

Don't let it consume who you are

There's still hope for everyone

Keep walking on

 

Bridge:

For everything that brings you down

There is a crutch holding you up

There is a light waiting for you

You just have to open up your heart

Open up your heart now darling

You don't have to be afraid anymore

 

Chorus:

Just don't lose sight of the light

Don't lose the hope in your eyes

Keep going forward

Don't forget there's a light inside of you

Don't let the darkness take over you

Don't let it consume who you are

There's still hope for everyone

Keep walking on

 

Closing lines:

Keep walking along the path

It may seem dark now darling

But soon enough the light will come to you

[curryjacket]

his brain

a tree stump

glowing, an illuminate

anxiety

darkness in the winter

when he gets off work

at six.

he is no longer

lucky

his brain

a tree stump

for travelers in the woods

to fall over.

his brain stutters

in bed, late

in the dark

and the heart beats faster,

wanting to explode -

a mercy

there is light

bursting forth

and, yet, he can see it

nevermore -

and he wonders

what he did wrong.

the light a lie,

making lovers

guilded highs

always

in the dark,

tree stump.

Edited November 2, 2015 by curryjacket

[paraskeve]

They're both really nice!!

[kb5462]

A Night Like This

November, 2015; 'Light and Darkness'

 

The cars sped past him on the interstate, fireflies in the night. The road stretched on into nothingness.

 

The days were getting shorter; the birds had upped and left for the winter, headed south for the warmth of the sun beating on their wings. 

 

He was headed home, too. Above him was the clearest desert night’s sky he’d seen in a while, stars written through it by some divine hand, startlingly crisp. All around him was that American darkness, pure and rich. 

 

He thought back to the last night like this. They’d taken a box of wine up to the cabin, climbing the mountain road in his old car, Bob Dylan on the radio. There’d been a hunger in her eyes.

 

She’d baked chicken and okra. After dinner, they lay outside, records playing. They drank the wine, and he watched her dance.

 

She’d stood on the porch, that sun dipping low behind her, proclaiming, “I can move the world!” Arms spread wide, she was giddy and fiercely alive, twirling in the final moments of daylight. Her feet were light on the wooden deck; her eyes closed as she turned her face upwards towards the sky.

 

“I’m not like other girls,” she’d promised earnestly, as she stopped.

 

The valley behind her was soon lost in the darkness. 

 

“Honey, let’s get lost like that,” she’d said, crawling up into his lap. They’d sat there, looking out into where the night went, minute in the face of the galaxy. 

 

He’d first tasted the universe on a night like this. As he drove, he tasted it again.

[Marley]

Wow guys! Loving the responses! I want to comment on each individually but I'm gonna have to wait till I have a little more time. Lovely lovely. <3

[Shasta Daisy]

The Darkest Hour, Part One  

November 2015

Darkness and Light

A storm raged outside, and lightning boomed. Bored of being cooped up in my grandparents house, I asked if I could look in the attic for something interesting. I'd never been up there before, and as wearisome as it may seem to my readers, I found a certain amount of mystery in unlocking cedar chests that had been closed for countless years and learning about the contents of each and the strange stories each article had to tell. Well, on this particular night, the Coleman lantern beside me humming (the storm had knocked the power out), I found a worn, old journal, and removing the ribbon that tightly bound it closed, with curiosity overpowering me, began to read...
 
They say that the darkest hour is that before the light comes. That is what they say, that is what I've heard and believed. But now I think that those that said it never knew what it was like to be in complete darkness, six feet under the earth, with no way out, no chance of escape...
 
But I am getting ahead of myself. This is my story, written by the twinkling light of a candle in the dark of night, as it bobs and bounds and flashes shadows across the walls. I am ill, and not going to live long; this story must be told, however, and I hope to complete it before I depart from this world forever. God has been good enough to spare my shameful life once already, although He only knows why, but I cannot expect such a miracle to happen twice. I cannot bring myself to write this story in first person, however, as it makes me relive the nightmarish horrors I've gone though, so I shall write this impassively in the thrird person, and pretend as if it were not real, only fantasy. Those things that I myself was not present at in my story were told me by those that were, and that which I do not know for sure has either been left out or filled in with my best guess.
 
It was rather chilly on this particular foggy night in England. To any one of the many local residents, everything seemed ordinary enough. The only witnesses to anything going on out of the ordinary were far beyond telling anyone, as they watched through eyeless sockets, out from under six feet of earth, looking past the stone slabs engraved with names that feebly represented the dead men buried below.They watched silently as two men broke the lock on the graveyard gate and stole hesitantly inside, laden with shovels, picks, and empty gunnysacks. They crept slowly forward, glancing nervously about at the forbidding sights before them.
"Come on, Charly, let's get this done and get out of this bloody place as soon as we can," the stocky man in the lead barked gruffly to the shorter man following closely behind.
"Wh-where do we start, Art?" Charly asked in his characteristicly whiney voice.
"We look for a newer grave, one with the dirt not yet settled by rain. No use digging up ragged clothes and broken, tarnished jewelry, when we could do better," Art replied curtly.
They walked on, looking for such a grave. A dark cloud hid the full moon from sight, putting the surrounds in a temporary darkness. Immediately, Charly took out a small lantern and lit it with shaky hand.
"Be careful with that thing! Do you want somebody to see us? Shield it with your body, that's the way," Art harshly directed.
Suddenly the cloud moved from the face of the moon, and the image of a cross fell across the ground directly in front of them. Charly let ut a muffled shriek, and leaping backwards, turned around as if to run. Art, not scared in the least bit, quickly grabbed the back of Charly's collar, in order to detain him. Yanking the lantern from his trembling hand, he held it up in the direction the shadow came from.
"Look," he said, "It's just a monument. There's nothing 'ere to be afraid of, unless it's a bunch of dead people. If that's the case, then I suggest you find a different line of work."
Turning around sheepishly, he stuttered, "I-I'm okay. Don't worry. I-I'll go through with it." His voice was none too reassuring.
"You better. You knew what you were getting into," Art growled back.
As they walked on, Art stumbled over something and caught his balance. There was the sound of an angry cat screeching, followed by hissing, and Art shined the light down just in time to see a scrawny black cat, back arched and fur on end, dart across the path infront of them. Charly jumped back again.
"That's bad luck!" he whined, "Let's go back and forget the whole thing, Art. I knew one guy who had a black cat cross his trail, and a week later his dear old mum died. Let's go back, Art."
"Your dear old mum died years ago, so what are you worried about? That's just a bunch of nonsense anyway. Come on!"
Art started to walk away, and afraid to let the light of the lantern leave him, Charly followed reluctantly behind.
"Hey, Charly, looky 'ere," Art called out softly, "I found us a nice, fresh grave. Get ready to dig 'ere."
Dropping everything but their shovels, and placing the lantern on the ground beside them, they began digging. It was slow, arduous work, but with hopes for a good haul filling their heads, they eagerly kept at it. Finally Art's shovel thunked up against something solid. They excitedly started clearing the dirt from the top of the casket. When the wooden lid was bare, Charly took a step backwards and went pale, suddenly realizing the next step they were to take.
Art rested momentarily against the pile of dirt, and then proceded to take a small flask from his pocket and took a couple sips from it. Charly reached out a trembling hand for it, and after a moment of hesitation Art gave it to him. He gulped it down quite readily, and would most likely have emptied the last drop from the bottle had not Art reached over and grabbed it away from him in time to save some. He held it to his ear, sloshing the contents back and forth. About a quarter full yet, he reckoned. Scowling, he slipped the flask back into his pocket, and went back to work.
"No sign of rot on this wood. It's new alright," he said as he slid the edge of his pick under the lid of the coffen and tried to pry it up. After a few such attempts, he sighed.
"Blimy! This one's really nailed down. It's like they was tryin' to keep the corpses from runnin' away!" Art joked, chuckling to himself.
"I wish you wouldn't joke about such things, Art. It gives me the creeps," Charly whined quietly.
"You get the creeps if you see your own shadow. Come on, 'elp me pry this lid off."
Charly took a step forward and peered curiously down at the coffen below. A clod of dirt came loose under his feet, and he tumbled head first over onto the coffen, with a thud. He quickly jumped up and scurried out of there as fast as possible.
"Don't be a bloomin' idiot. Watch where you're stepping," Art gruffly reprimanded.
Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, there came a long, low, feeble moan that seemed to be all around them and everywhere at once, and that then ended as abruptly as it had started.
Charly cringed, too frightened to run. "Wh-wh," he stammered incomprehensibly, then swallowed and tried again. "What was that?" he squeaked.
"It's just the wind," Art stated, but even he himself did not seem too sure of it.
A shiver made its way up and down his spine. It's just the chilly dampness of the night air, he tried to tell himself, but of course he knew that wasn't true. That noise he had heard; it had not sounded like the wind. He was used to the sounds of the wind whistling by, and that sound was not it. He hastily shook off the thought.
Keep thinkin' like that, and you're gonna end up just like ol' Charly 'ere. You 'eard the wind, that's all, and you 'eard nothin' else, he told himself, and having thus reassured himself, he continued to try to pry up the lid.
He managed to pry it loose at last, after working at it slowly but surely for several minutes. Charly and him both exchanged glances with eachother, and Art, in one quick motion, threw the lid aside. Inside lay a man, perhaps in his early thirties, well-dressed, with his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if to keep him warm during the coldness of death. Charly, never before religious, hastily crossed himself and briefly raised his eyes to Heaven... but when his eyes came down again they immediately started probing the body for any sign of jewelry. He spied a watch chain pertruding from a coat pocket, and reached out for it, but Art had already spotted it, and his hand was already wrapped around it before Charly's was half way there.
"We're lucky today, Charly ol' boy," Art exclaimed, turning the watch over in his hand. "Real gold watch like this must bring at least fifty pounds. Let's what other goodies you have for us, eh, friend?"
He glimpsed a ring on the man's right hand, and grabbing his wrist, pulled it up to get a better look at it. It came up with ease.
"There's something wrong 'ere," Art exclaimed suddenly. "Th' bloody body ain't stiff!"
Charly took a step back. Art only inspected the body closer. There was a large gash on the side of the man's head, covered over with hair caked with dry blood. The man's lips were cracked and dry. His eyes were tightly closed, not loosely like death generally caused.
As Art was observing the man's face, he became suddenly aware he was still clutching the man's wrist. The thought disturbed him, and he instantly dropped it. It fell loosely across the man's face, palm up. Art felt something sticky and wet on his fingers, and glanced at them. They had blood on them.
"Now, 'ow did you get there?" he wondered aloud.
" 'And me that lantern, will ya?" he asked Charly, still staring at the blood on his fingers.
Charly silently held the lantern out to him, and then once more backed away. Art peered at the body in a new light, and saw at once where the blood had come from. The fingertips on the hand he had been holding upright were raw and bloody, his nails jagged and torn. Bits of wood were stuck in his fingers, Art observed, and on a hunch, he looked at the inside of the coffen lid. He found long gouges and scratches, covered with blood, that matched the man's fingers.
He exchanged a look with Charly, who was by now deadly pale.
"This bloke was buried alive!" he said, a dazed look on his face.
Charly's eyes went back to the body, and he suddenly started shaking and quivering worse than any aspen leaf ever did. Raising a violently trembling finger, he pointed at the body, his mouth forming words, but nothing coming out. Art glanced in the direction Charly was pointing, just in time to see the dead man's eyes quiver, and then open. Art stumbled backwards, staring at the body in disbelief. There was a scream, and Art looked up just in time to see Charly's back as he ran away as fast as was humanly possible. Art was just about to follow Charly's example, when the cracked lips opened, and a husky, barely audible voice issued forth.
"A thousand pounds...all yours...help me," were the words he had said, followed by some more garbled words that could not be made out. Art hesitated, and then came forward.
The man was breathing heavily and raggedly, as if just speaking had been a very great strain and exertion for him; which, in his condition, it must most assuredly have been.
He tried to say something else, could not, and finally in a small, weak croak, said: "Water."
Art grabbed the small flask from his pocket, looked at it wistfully, and then holding it up to the man's cracked lips, made the disclaimer that "it sure ain't water, but it'll sure do you good."
The man drank readily. "Take me...away...from here...hurry," the man gasped urgently, his bloody fingers groping at the sides of his wooden coffen, as if to pull himself up.
Grabbing him under the arms, Art managed, with difficulty, to pull him up out of the hole.
"Who...who are you? 'Ow did you get in there?" Art finally managed to ask the man.
"Let's leave...this place...now! They might...see us," he said in a cracking, unsteady voice.
Heaving the man up and slinging him over his back, Art made his way back to the graveyard gate. Once through it, Art took the man from his back and rested a minute before going on. Glancing at the mysterious man's face, he noticed that he had passed out.
Well, what now?, Art asked himself silently. I can't stay here, and he wanted to be taken some place safe. I'll bring him to my place, far enough away from nosy parkers and prying eyes, yet close enough to carry him.
And in that direction they went.
"No!" came a voice in a hoarse whisper, and Art looked up curiously.
The man was still asleep, but he was seemingly struggling violently with something. His breath was coming in harsh rasps, and he threw his arms out infront of him, as if trying to push something away.
"No!" he exclaimed again, this time louder than before. Then he lay silent and still.
Art shook his head. He had been waiting for him to come to again for close to three hours now, and his watch said it was now half past two o'clock in the morning. He pushed aside a shabby, ripped curtain and tried to look out through a dust-caked window. He rubbed a spot on it with the end of his sleeve, but even when he was able to look through it there was not anything there to see but the darkened shadows of night.
It wasn't long after, when the man's eyes flickered, then opened. His first thought was of the strange feeling of warmth around him. Confused, he told himself that warmth was impossible. And yet, he did feel it, and it was warmth that had brought him to his senses again. Was this Heaven? His eyes darted about the room, unfocused, but all that he saw were bright, shapeless blurs. He squinted into the bright light, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to it. How long had it been since he had last seen light, and felt warmth? He could not remember.
When his eyes adjusted, it certainly wasn't Heaven that he saw. He was in a dirty, dingy room that seemed to serve as the entire living quarters of its occupant. A man, sitting straddled over a backwards chair, his large arms resting across the back, was staring at him out of beady, almost rodent-like eyes.
"Where am I?" he asked, his voice still low and unsteady, but coherent.
"You're okay. You'll be plenty safe 'ere. 'Ow did you bloomin' manage to get yourself buried alive, that's the real question 'ere," Art replied, getting up and pouring some water into the cleanest dirty cup he had. He held it up to the man's lips, and the man drank it eagerly.
The man made no attempt to answer the question directed at him, and instead asked one of his own. "Who are you?"
"Arthur Fink," Art answered promptly, "At your service. Or at least a thousand pounds worth of your service."
"How far away are we...from the graveyard?" the man asked, his voice slowly loosing the coarseness that it had before, but his voice having a ring of fear to it.
"About 'alf a mile, I dare say,"
A look of worry clouded over the pale face of this strange man, and something else with it... not fear any more, but something else, a look of tiredness, a look of long-suffering, but through it all a look of the utmost resolution and the will to live.
"That's hardly enough," he said, and then added, "In which direction?"
Art informed him, in so many words, that they were in an abandoned shack on the outskirts of a slum.
The man let out a short sigh of relief. "Good!" he exclaimed, his weak voice filled with passion. "They won't look for me here."
Art looked at him quizzically. What was this stranger talking about? 'E is probably out of 'is 'ead, what with being so weak and all, he said to himself, walking over and giving the small pot of weak soup he was heating up on the stove a stir. A sudden thought struck him: What if the thousand pounds was just the talk of a man driven out of 'is wits? It was more than just likely... it was probable. The thought made him scowl as he considered it. Well, I'll just think of it as my good deed of the month. And there's just a slight chance, and I mean very slight, that 'e ain't so crazy after all, and if that's the case... the scowl immediately left his face as he considered all the wonderful, marvelous things he could do with a thousand pounds.
He ladled some of the thin soup out into a chipped bowl and handed it to the man, who readily took it and eagerly gulped it down.
"I think that the least you could do is tell me your name, guv'ner," Art insisted.
"Terry Browning."
Art looked incredulous. "The son of George Browning? Of Gavenshire?"
Browning nodded slowly. "The same."
" 'Ow do I know this? 'Ow do I know that's the truth, then?"
"My watch...it has my name in it," he said, fumbling in his pocket; the pocket was empty. "Where is it?"
Art took it from his own pocket and flipped it open. Sure enough, the name was engraved inside. But Art was still skeptical... very skeptical.
"The news is that Terry Browning was shot by a stray bullet on an 'unting trip a month ago. 'Is 'unting partner ran back to get 'elp, and when 'e returned, all that was left of poor ol' Terry was blood everywhere and torn pieces of 'is clothing. The story goes that 'is body was drug off by wild beasts. An' now you go and say that you're Terry Browning. Is that 'bout right, guv'ner?"
"The story was mostly true, only the bullet was meant for me, the beasts were of the two-legged kind, and as you can see, I'm still alive. I was shot alright, though. That I was," he replied, his hand inadvertently going to his side.
Art leaned over the man and pulled back his shirt in that area, and there was the unmistakable scar of a bullet wound staring back at him.
The man then preceded to tell Art his story.
 
*****TO BE CONTINUED AT A DISTANT DATE... MAYBE*****

Edited November 5, 2015 by Shasta Daisy

[paraskeve]

Everybody's stories are amazing!!!

[Shasta Daisy]

Marley, this was such a great idea to do this challenge! The turnout was fantastic. I think that it would be neat if there would be a winner, though... It adds incentive to it, and might help people to write better. I don't know, though, people seem to be writing pretty good as it is.

About my story... it's part one of a novelette I am writing. While I have had the idea jogging around in my head for months and months, this challenge gave me the desire to actually start it. I only posted the first part of it, but there is a lot more just waiting to be written. Maybe I'll post more in a future challenge.

No copying or duplicating or taking in any way, shape, or form, in whole or in part is permitted without the written permission of myself. This is an original work, and copying it is the same as stealing.  Thank you very much.

Edited November 4, 2015 by Shasta Daisy

[paraskeve]

I ask the same of everyone else. If you copy it without permission/without credit, I will hunt you down and go all dark/bright lights on you. 

[Shasta Daisy]

I ask the same of everyone else. If you copy it without permission/without credit, I will hunt you down and go all dark/bright lights on you. 

XD LOL, me too!

[slycooper]

1. A Promise of a False Dawn
November - Light and Darkness

[A Fallen London Fanfic]




Journal Entry #9
Day 82


My Guiding Light Home,
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder and I can but only hint at how these wretched endless tides that seperate us have made me long to see your sweet face again. I continue this journal in the hope that one day I will come across it again, after I find the so called Dawn Machine, after I return to you and we settle into the cottage by Watchmaker's Hill whose deeds are promised us... And maybe even after we have children who will make their own legacies. Then, and only then, will we look back at this journal and fully, without the leering haunts that drag me down now, be able to look at my work and say it was worth it, for it is only through you I can judge my actions.

I write this entry having just sailed past The Shattered Cathedral. Sweet mercy, do you remember the stories I told you of that place? Of the men and women I lost? The monks there described it as a level of darkness only fond in a place what was once bursting with light. I may not remember the light but I can certainly understand the sheer absence of it which seeped through the pores of that hell. Sailing past it made me want to write again, made me think of you.

But it is by the by, I should write about happier things, no? Who would have thought after years of slaving yet mastering this unforgiving terrain my magnum opus would arrival from the admiralty. The admiralty! An honour if ever there was one, after years of service - to sail such a fine vessel with a distinguished crew and to be told, this is yours, you are worthy. From the admiralty! Ha! Just writing those letters and dotting that i makes my hand shake. When he appeared at our doorstep I thought him one of hell's ambassadors, tax collector come to finally collect on past indiscretions. But no! Not a devil but an angel in a fine velvet tuxedo which soon I too shall own! When we go through the heart of the Khan empire the image of you adjorned with untold splendor shall be my lighthouse.

I shall admit, the admiral spoke little of our mission here other than to install this immaculate gem stone into what we find at the co-ordinates. I peeked at it today, as the glow from Volgoth's abyss illuminated it even from under the cloth which I keep it hid. It burned with a fiery intensity, as if the rays from the surface all were encapsulated in my palm and fought for dominance like a pack of rats. Looking back I hear the most seering, hellish screams, shrieks, cries for help, blood curdling condemnations and spite filled calls for revenge all somehow melded into one sound not even the trauma of the Shattered Cathedral matched. The strange part is I don't remember hearing it at the time.

But i'm doing it again aren't I? I should speak of triumph, not what is beyond me. It is not far to the 'Dawn Machine' now whatever it is. The admiral spoke in such hushed tones that I knew in my bones I was tasked with something important. D-A-W-N M-A-C-H-I-N-E. Do you think it has something to do with returning us to the surface? To feel the sun of our childhoods again and not this fake illusionary imitation? To no longer live in a society where the depths of your soul could fester away in the shadows and rejoice in its own self indulgence. I hope so.

Maker keep us safe,
K.


-------------------------------------------------------------


Day 97
Journal Entry #10

My Guiding Light,

It is not far now! The crew are becoming restless, only a handful of them have gone this far out before. We have long since lost any signs of what passes for civilization and now the only light comes from our fog light. Sometimes we hear the ripples of the monsters which lie below and even have to turn that off, just for the modicum of hope it provides that it will not turn its gaze to us. At first I admired this ship but this far out I feel so woefully underprepared. The nights are cold, we have started to argue amongst ourselves despite having enough rations to last us to the Dawn Machine and back to the heart of the Khan to resupply. We have our days though, just last night we all sat around with some spirits to raise our own and all simply talked. As if we were home amongst the warm wreaths of the Flute Street pubs.Conversation was light at first but after a few shots we shared zee stories and what had led us here.

Ne'er a soul was not tainted in some way.

I suppose that's how they earned their stripes, they had to go through the ringers to make it-but no, scrap that these were different. These souls had all tainted themselves. Betrayed fellow crew, lovers, even empires. Stood at the top of mountains and blasphemed on high. Farmed souls on the market. Sold revolutionaries to the masters, and masters to the revolutionaries. Some were filled with regret and others were not. Some crimes I can scarely bring myself to think of they were so offensive. Yet I admit, I felt a kinship with them at this time no matter how horrendous the crime. I just thank God I do not have to count myself among them.

I shall write once we meet our destination,
K.

------------------------------------------------------------


Day 103
Journal Entry #11

My love I see something! On the horizon! It... Is beautiful. This must be it! It is gigantic, the size of the largest kracken cannot compare with the magnitude of this sight. It shines with a majesty I have not seen and yet even as all of my crew stand outside in awe I cannot for the life of me say what it is. It is clockwork, for that I am certain and a faint glow of the horizon stems from within it. Its parts are in constant motion and yet still. Grant me a moment, I shall continue this entry when we finish our task. The gemstone appears to know it is near home!


Ihav returned to my cbin to tke accnt of the evnts happenin ritenow. Thecrew suceded and now all I can hear is SCREAMING. Such h o r r i f ic sounds wails
shrieks wailing
cries calls howling

And the light
it is so bright I cannot bear to turn my gaze from the paper. Is this what the sun is ???
The crew are screaming and it will not end. Screaming and chanting the sun the sun. Why?

Why ???
WHY WONT IT END.
ITS IN MY HEAD ITS IN MY HEAD. I NEED THE DARKNESS. THE LIGHT FESTERS.


[intelligible scrawl]

I am sorry. I do not know what occured. It is quiet out and all I can hear is a low hum of that wretched machine. Oh god what is it... My crew... They are dead. Those cries are not of anything that could possibly live. They screamed, and yelled, and wept and clawed at themselves until they finally ceased. I swear the screams ended long after the clawing. ohgodhelpme. I heard splashes of some going over but I dare not step out to see if any remain. I... were we a success? Is this what the admiralty wanted? Did they know?

Will I get paid?

I am going to step out. I have to, I cannot stay here. It is dark again and the darknessissafe. I am safe. I am safe. How can I not be with you waiting back in London? I am master of this zee, I worked too hard for this to end from some faux, empty horizon.

...If I dont write again. Forgive me...ohgod everyone forgive me I should have known. The sea does not forgive.


------------------------------------

THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN. THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN. THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN..THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN..THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.THE SUN.


------------------------------------------------------------

Day: Unknown

Journal Entry #18


It has been...so...long.... I am so tired. I think I shall rest here. Finally I am in the right frame of mind to write this down for you. You will hate me, but you will understand, which is enough.

My crew... Some had remained. Dead, of course. Scratch marks all over their body. At first I did not understand how but I do now. How I have prayed to forget what I know. To know how foolish I could be... And how flesh tearingly vile.

No divine intervention can stop the ghastly vision of their faces come back to me every time I close my eyes. It was horror but more than that it was the face of someone whose sin had caught them, grabbed them by the neck and tore out their soul through their wailing jaws. Maybe I am projecting but it was what I felt and I suffered but a glimmer of what they did.

The screaming I had recollected without memory, I see now. I see it A-L-L. The admiralty knew. They *had* too. They brought us together. If by a miracle you see this one day my love I hope, oh how I hope that you believe me. I am paranoid but I am not wrong. That machine? It destroys the darkness, the light it produced was a horizon, a new dawn. What seperates us from the surface dwellers? The darkness. The darkness of the iconoclastic Neath which tears down the laws of life and death and makes us free to fester in the shadows... It protects us. It gives us freedom to do as our whims take us and gives us the environment we need to cope with the vile, wretched, disgusting, unholy things we then submit to.

Whoever controls the light, they control life, death and in a less real but an even more suffocating way, our souls and conscience.

We were chosen for this. They knew what the light would show of ourselves and what it would do to us. No witnesses to tell the masters of the things to come.

I now count myself amongst them. My comrades, that is. I had told myself what happened at the Shattered Cathedral was not my fault. I was not to blame as they were. I did as best as I could at the time. And then the dawn changed that. Such lies I coddled myself with. When the light overcame me I saw into myself and saw what I protected myself from, the things I did and did willingly in the name of my survival. How I debased the law of God and of Man. I scarcely thought it in me but as I see the remains of the Shattered Cathedral as I write now I know I could do that and other things a thousand times over. Just to get here, to my own selfish goal I have had to be.. creative with what I can eat for food-andohgodiamsosorrymydarlingthisisallmyfaultIshouldhaveheededyoupleaseohpleaseplease. . .. .

Forgive me friends for how I have desicrated your corpses. May you find the peace I shall not.



---------------------------------

I will leave it to the zee if this journal finds you. My guiding light.... I wrote earlier I could only judge myself through your eyes but as I look at the distant lights of London I fear how I will be reflected by your eyes more than I do in my wretched own. Know I shall lay myself to rest at the Shattered Cathedral and surround myself in the sweet darkness I so seek again. It is as the monks said, it is only now ive seen the light do I truly feel the depths of true darkness. And how I yearn desperately for it.

I made a mistake.... Once. And for that there is no forgiveness.

Yours forever,
K.

Edited November 5, 2015 by slycooper

[slycooper]

So. This is a thing I wrote. Um.. Yeah.

 

I figure people have covered the angst bit (although bless, K is an angsty romantic thing to begin with) so i went horror. Angst I find it quite a bit easier in short form as you can convey it quite easily and build up to a quick emotional pay off so this was quite hard for me! (Took like, 3 hours to write)

 

So yeah, it's a Fallen London/Sunless Sea fanfic which I think needs explaining a bit if you want to read it. Ive tried to make it user friendly and you never know, maybe not knowing elements makes it more interesting. BUT. It's set in 'The Neath', which is basically undergound cthulhu horror land where its really dark and giant bats (known as the masters) have dragged Victorian London down to this place. The fic takes place on the 'Unterzee' which is the big expanse of ocean where every horrendous thing possible seemingly happens, everyone goes a bit crazy and its super dark. What with being underground and all that.

 

 The Dawn Machine is a real thing from the universe which creates some fake sun elsewhere in the Neath. Or something like that, its sort of wrapped in mystery and not explained much more than the admiralty created it and it overtakes the Neaths darkness/stars which os where some of its more magical propeties come from such as people often coming back from the dead or stories being currency which feed the land (hence the whole control over life/death bit).

 

Its established canon that the Sun can make people who've been in the Neath a long time go mad and cause physical harm, hence the effects of the Light. Revolutionaries are trying to bring it back so the masters control of the Neath and of people can be weakened but this is often at some consequence.

 

And the Shattered Cathedral is also a real place inverse! I have lost many a captain there v.v It's evil I say!

 

Its um... Complicated lore. Sorry Dx

Edited November 5, 2015 by slycooper

[Shasta Daisy]

Instead of replying individually to each entry, I'd like to just comment on each one in one post, addressing the authors by username.
 
Paraskeve, your story shows a lot of writing talent and a very vivid imagination. The writing style captures the interest of the reader, as does the content of the story. Good job.
 
Jesusismyticket, I love your song. It is so pretty, so beautiful, so eery, and yet so charming. Thank you for sharing it here with us. I think that God gave you a great gift here.
 
Curryjacket, I like the way you write what comes to your mind. It gives writings a deeper meaning, and makes them more interesting. While your poem is not exactly my style of writing, I can appreciate it for what it is.
 
Kb5462, your story is good, and very nicely written. I like it how you used the light/darkness to set the mood of your story, as you would in a movie. It adds realism and emotion to the words of your story.
 
Slycooper, I really like this story you wrote. The plot is hard to understand at first, but after reading it a while you begin to get a better grasp of it. It is interesting and well-written. I like the ending a lot, how you keep people guessing.
 
There are so many great stories/poems/songs here that are being shared, I can hardly wait until next month to read even more!

[paraskeve]

Instead of replying individually to each entry, I'd like to just comment on each one in one post, addressing the authors by username.

 

Paraskeve, your story shows a lot of writing talent and a very vivid imagination. The writing style captures the interest of the reader, as does the content of the story. Good job.

 

Jesusismyticket, I love your song. It is so pretty, so beautiful, so eery, and yet so charming. Thank you for sharing it here with us. I think that God gave you a great gift here.

 

Curryjacket, I like the way you write what comes to your mind. It gives writings a deeper meaning, and makes them more interesting. While your poem is not exactly my style of writing, I can appreciate it for what it is.

 

Kb5462, your story is good, and very nicely written. I like it how you used the light/darkness to set the mood of your story, as you would in a movie. It adds realism and emotion to the words of your story.

 

Slycooper, I really like this story you wrote. The plot is hard to understand at first, but after reading it a while you begin to get a better grasp of it. It is interesting and well-written. I like the ending a lot, how you keep people guessing.

 

There are so many great stories/poems/songs here that are being shared, I can hardly wait until next month to read even more!

Aw, thanks! Yours is really good too!

And honestly, I don't think I can phrase it any better than you can. So all I'm gonna say is ditto. XD

[Shasta Daisy]

Aw, thanks! Yours is really good too!

And honestly, I don't think I can phrase it any better than you can. So all I'm gonna say is ditto. XD

Thank you very much, Paraskeve. I'm happy to hear that you found it enjoyable. It actually took me since the challenge started to the day I posted to write it up, almost four days. I've had the idea for it for quite a while, though.

[Jesusismyticket]

Instead of replying individually to each entry, I'd like to just comment on each one in one post, addressing the authors by username.

 

Paraskeve, your story shows a lot of writing talent and a very vivid imagination. The writing style captures the interest of the reader, as does the content of the story. Good job.

 

Jesusismyticket, I love your song. It is so pretty, so beautiful, so eery, and yet so charming. Thank you for sharing it here with us. I think that God gave you a great gift here.

 

Curryjacket, I like the way you write what comes to your mind. It gives writings a deeper meaning, and makes them more interesting. While your poem is not exactly my style of writing, I can appreciate it for what it is.

 

Kb5462, your story is good, and very nicely written. I like it how you used the light/darkness to set the mood of your story, as you would in a movie. It adds realism and emotion to the words of your story.

 

Slycooper, I really like this story you wrote. The plot is hard to understand at first, but after reading it a while you begin to get a better grasp of it. It is interesting and well-written. I like the ending a lot, how you keep people guessing.

 

There are so many great stories/poems/songs here that are being shared, I can hardly wait until next month to read even more!

thank you for that Shasta. <3

[T.O.W.R.]

"Coffee Dates."

November 2015, Light and Darkness

"I'm telling you, dark roast is inherently better!"

"Well, you're entitled to your wrong opinion."

"I'm sorry, was that a Dance Mom's quote? Pardon me, if I don't take that seriously."

"Hey, the truth comes out in shocking places. But seriously, light roast coffee is the best. Not only does it taste better, but you get more caffeine and..."

"Hold up. No, you don't get more caffeine. Because light roast coffee has smaller beans, you can fit more in a scoop and so, yes, you get more bang for your buck. But I only drink coffee at shops that actually weigh out the coffee beans first."

"Snob. Pardon me for being an equal opportunity coffee shop patron."

"Wait... does that mean you go in to Starbucks?"

"So what if I do?"

"I will pray for you if you do. I will also take you to an actual coffee shop where people actually enjoy their coffee. Not whatever 'beverages', if you can even call it that, they serve at Starbucks."

"What traumatic experience did you go through in life to make you so anal-retentive about coffee? Did you witness someone die at a Dunkin' Donuts or something?"

"No. I drank some Starbucks, said "This is terrible." and went to an actual coffee shop. The only thing that died on that day was my taste buds. Thankfully, the elixir of the gods; Dark Roast Coffee from a real coffee shop, came and revived my withered taste buds. Saving them from spending all eternity in coffee hell."

"That's going on Twitter, hold up a sec... ... ... 'coffee hell'. Aaand send."

"Ugh, you use Twitter too? I only use Facebook for keeping in touch with family. I've advanced beyond the need for petty distractions like social media."

"Why are we friends?"

"Because someone has to be the darkness to your light."

[T.O.W.R.]

Let my entry be a lesson as to why you should never write after midnight. Especially when it was written in like, 20 minutes.

Now I want coffee.

[Shasta Daisy]

T.O.W.R., that is wonderful! You got a chuckle from that. Very good!

[Shasta Daisy]

Thank you for that Shasta. <3

No problem! It's true.

[paraskeve]

@ T.O.W.R. That was really funny!! My parents call Starbucks "Charbucks" as they burn their coffee-beans.

They even bungle up cocoa! How do you manage that? XD