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Aeraie

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February 2009 - Official Story Contest

Post 1: Information
Post 2-3: Yrolg's piece
Post 4: Dockwa's piece
Post 5-8: Leela Feliz's piece
Post 9-10: Dreamweaver's piece

27-Sep-2012 03:28:08 - Last edited on 02-Oct-2012 00:31:13 by Aeraie

Aeraie

Posts: 9,100 Rune Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

-------------- Yrolg --------------
2nd Place, February 2009

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Paul muttered, softly muffled in the dark and empty room. He stood up, and paced back and forth, his chair swirling when on one pass, Paul kicked it. Now stopped, Paul threw his fists against the back of his chair: “You have got to be KIDDING me!”

It had been fifteen months of work but *still* there were bugs. “Fifteen months of bloody work, and still nothing! ANDREW!” Paul yelled out, impatient for the imminent reunion. “Andrew! It’s crashed again!”

“It crashed? I fixed that last week, Paul,” a voice was heard to call back. The empty office echoed with the shouting match, and as the two voices echoed along the surrounding hallways, spreading throughout the building, a third voice was faintly heard, entreating some indiscernible thing.

“ANDREW!!” Paul called out again, turning from the desk and stomping a frenzied march over to the door whence the second voice came. Just as he opened the door, Paul saw a man rise from his own desk, facing away. He was fiddling with a large black and silver box, taller even than he.

“OI! What the hell are you doing?” Paul demanded of his brother, who jumped from his position at the box.

“I’m just checking the server. You said it crashed, so I wanted to be sure that it wasn’t the same problem as before. That last time cost me about a week of work, and it cost us both a hefty sum of money.” Andrew had again turned to face the server, and had begun administering a great series of tests to each of its ports.

“Well, save your ‘intelligence’ for later, Andrew. I need your help with something out there,” his brother responded, already walking back to his desk. “Fifteen months!! This quest is truly a task of the Devil,” Paul stated on his way back, frustrated by his umpteenth failure.

27-Sep-2012 03:28:14 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:39:29 by Aeraie

Aeraie

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Andrew, hurriedly plugging the cords back into the massive server, softly mumbled to his brother a few words of little consolation. “Paul, this is the fiftieth quest: of course it’s going to be hard to make. I mean, look, you started with the goal of twenty fifth, and now you’re on to fiftieth. At least the company’s making progress.”

“Look, Andrew: I died. The whole plot’s messed up; I couldn’t even get Constant to survive the doppelgänger’s control! We need to fix it.”

27-Sep-2012 03:28:20 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:39:50 by Aeraie

Aeraie

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------------ Dockwa ----------
3rd Place, February 2009

"I am like the child who lays awake past his curfew in his bed. He is attentive: not to force a noise by rustling the linens. His mother and father amble into the room where the boy wears a mask of purity, with the face of the untainted sheep, that they cannot behold through. He does nothing more, until they part with convinced thoughts in their mind: that he sleeps, as does seem," he spoke, then again and again and again with riddle and riddle and riddle.

''I am like what one views, and does not; like what is there, and is not. There is a magician and his illusions: there is some thing, imitated by reflections from mirrors––yet, these reflections are apparently seen and perceived. What can one see or perceive if he pour a veil of smoke? One cannot see or perceive it, thus the vision winnow away, if he pour a veil of smoke.

"I am like the pretenders, the dancers, and the entertained, giving worth to the `theatre,´ and its unreal entities and surreal lands. One is red, yet is dressed in blue? One recites the words of a majesty from the tongue of a peasant? The dancers spin round, and show fun in spirit, and sing joyous song … The pretenders play dress-up with new faces and names … Their followers, the entertained, marvel at the life of this game, yet it is an illusion.

"I am like fallacies: the bare truth becoming confused and overlaid; I am like the mimicries of each other that the animals use to hide amidst themselves; I am like the cleverly disguised fraud and frauds; I am like lies: wholly white or baleful; and I am like the foul and sinister swindlers. I am like Zamorak, who has seized Zaros' throne, until I seize it from Zamorak."

He braked to ponder a last remark, smiling when he saw one in his eyes. The last words rang through his teeth. "Who am I?"

27-Sep-2012 03:28:26 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:40:08 by Aeraie

Aeraie

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---------------- Leela Feliz ----------------
1st Place, *Official* Story Content

She was finally ready. She twirled her dress around one last time before entering the teleport.

When she arrived in Falador square the guests had already begun to arrive. They cloistered near the square so they might be noticed by the royal procession as it passed.

Not needing to be noticed, because this was her celebration, she strolled slowly down the lane to her destination. She wanted to take in all sights and sounds, and be in time to greet each of her guests. The king would attend her birthday party and choose her future groom.

As she crossed the threshold to the Party Room she saw that this affair was fit for a princess. The stone floors had been polished until you could see the reflections of the multicolored balloons.

The best musicians from across the land had come to provide entertainment.

“Tonight, will be the night!" She whispered.

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

I sat in a pew, pinioned beneath waves of the droning, drowning sermon that emanated from the new Priest. Many preferred him to Father Lawrence because his sermons left the parishioners in a state of hebetude that verged on meditation, but I would always miss Father Lawrence.

Father Lawrence could be counted on for an ecumenical array of sermons. I believed that was why he remained so popular with the church elders. He always managed to inculcate the need to pay alms each week, giving the money to charity to drag the poor up from the gutters. His verisimilitude was also very convincing. He really brought his sermons home to the people. Most gave more than they really should have.

27-Sep-2012 03:28:33 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:40:28 by Aeraie

Aeraie

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During a sermon, Father Lawrence’s nares would flare out with his words, as though he were on the verge of turning into some prophetic daemon. His passion would course through his arms, the unrepentant masses that he saw spread before him directing his motions into asperous, marionette gestures; but those who spent time with him in confession also knew how kind and comforting he could be.

As Father Lawrence would read from the incunabulum, he made you feel like a spectator to a much larger tale. When he spoke with his larger-than-life approach, you could sense the delicate linguistic bridges, the crystalline gaps in and between the words that had been bound into that hallowed text so long ago.

He was such a dynamic person that I could not believe it when I overheard his confession.

“How can I explain it?” These words came hurriedly and hushed through the partition in the confession box. I had entered quietly and thought perhaps Father Lawrence had not heard me, but before I could say anything, he was continuing: “There, my hands held tightly around her neck, and she was pleading to be let go. No one could see the nearly invisible, but binding, fishing string around her neck, and it was only getting tighter.” He paused to draw a ragged breath. “Damned,” he muttered.

Caught in this imbroglio, I froze. What should I do? Announce myself? Leave? I opted for the latter. I do not know if he heard my exit, but his side of the box remained closed as I walked out through the vestibule.

It was like a dream. The sky outside stretched around me like a stained glass window: solferino clouds fracturing a fiery sunset. The earth seemed to shimmer from the heat.

27-Sep-2012 03:28:39 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:41:21 by Aeraie

Aeraie

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The next day at church, Father Lawrence was not himself. Sunlight trickled down through the depiction of the holy mother in her ornate aigrette, dappling both Father Lawrence and the podium in sickly speckles. He looked sallow and solemn, as though leading an obsequy rather than a sermon. He scanned the crowd, his eyes briefly met mine and suddenly I was sure that he knew. He had heard me leave. The truth was out.

The church elders stood behind him in a dark line, and amongst them I could see the new priest. The man had a custom of slowly rubbing the backs of his hands while he stood, as though he were constantly washing them. He was doing so now, his gaze focused intently on Father Lawrence.

“No -” I almost spoke it aloud, as Father Lawrence prepared himself. He wore the mask of a martyr as he began, “I want to tell you a story. A confession. It’s something that happened several days ago - a large thing.” The rigidity in his speech – in his posture – held the audience’s attention. They had never seen Father Lawrence unanimated before.

“Sometimes it is hard to distinguish dream from reality, truth from fiction, false memories from the real. We all struggle with it. And this still seems like a dream to me, although I have touched the evidence, felt its coarse fabric beneath my fingers.” His hand moved through the air as though he were drawing it down the surface of a curtain. “On free days I often go fishing south of Taverly. This season has been especially great for the trout. Some days the lake swarms with them, their bodies rippling beneath the surface like muscle. There are so many they rock the boat.”

Several days ago I was fishing, standing on the portside of my scow, line stretched taut, when suddenly the mother herself appeared before me. No one is ready for an epiphany and – and –”

“And he killed her!” The new priest shouted, stepping forward. I had watched him throughout the tale, watched the smile slowly spreading across his face.

27-Sep-2012 22:29:49 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:41:44 by Aeraie

Aeraie

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“I did not!* Father Lawrence shouted, swiveling towards his interlocutor. “The line caught, and somehow it got tangled around –”

“I was there! On the shore! He strangled her! With his line!”

At this point one of the elders intervened, stepping between the pair and raising his arms. “Quiet!” He bellowed and an immediate hush fell. “In this church we comply only with the laws of the Gods and the Holy Book, and I think their rules are quite clear in this case. Father Lawrence killed our Holy mother. Perhaps by accident, perhaps not – we shall find out. We have a challenger here. The holy book states they must (a dramatic pause) fight til death.”

I stood up to complain that this was absurd, surely the death of the holy mother negated some of what the Book said, but just then I felt a tug on my shoulder from someone in the pew behind me.

There was a sense of tipping and then I was opening my eyes to an old man in a turban.

“Madam Scorsby, you fell asleep,” he said.

I looked around to find the church empty. Garnik, the new priest, had finished his sermon and left. When I looked back, the old man was hobbling towards the door. Something about his asperous movements reminded me of a dream that was already fading from my memory.

27-Sep-2012 22:29:56 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:42:35 by Aeraie

Aeraie

Posts: 9,100 Rune Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

-------------- Dreamweaver --------------
2nd Place, *Official* Story Contest

I entered the park this morning and greeted Sir Tiffy Cashien as I always do, but today he had some news for me. Most surprising news!

"Did you hear, Wysin? Queen Ellamaria of Varrock has had a splendid garden grown," he exclaimed, "A work of which the gnomes themselves would be proud. They say she even has a magnificent white tree."

The colour drained from my face. "A white tree, you say?" Gasping, I slumped onto the bench next to him. "A white tree. Incredible." We sat there for several long minutes in silence, but I felt his eyes on me. "Tiffy," I said at last, straightening up, "Let me tell you a story."

'"It was ten years ago, almost to the day, though I remember it as if it were last week. It was the middle of the night and I was just getting home, hoping she would be asleep. But before my hand could lift the latch, the door flew open and there stood my fiancée, furious.

'"Wysin," she screamed, "You were at the apothecary again! And the hebetudinous guttersnipe that works there?"

'I looked aghast, hoping for verisimilitude. "Ella, my lov..."

'Rage burned in her eyes. "Do not take me for a fool, Wysin. Your inculcations of affection are hollow. How long has it been, you wretch?"

'"No, it's not like..."

'Ellamaria, my wife-to-be, wheeled inside and slammed the door, but not a minute later, she was back, a bag in each hand.

'"You disgust me, you and your cowardly imbroglio. But it is over. I am leaving immediately and I expect never to see you again! Ever!"

'"Where to? It is past midnight? Ellamaria, let me..."

'She spoke softly then, but with absolute resolve. "Roald is taking me in. I should have gone to him years hence. The prince is a better man than you will ever be."

'I sank to my knees, the reality of my actions finally sinking in. "I deserve no more, yet I beg of you, please accept a last humble gift before you leave."

27-Sep-2012 22:30:13 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:43:28 by Aeraie

Aeraie

Posts: 9,100 Rune Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

'I dashed to the back garden, expecting her to be gone before I returned, but whether from a shred of caring or mere curiosity, she had waited. I opened my hand and revealed two large, pearl-like seeds.

'"In this, the obsequy to our relationship, I have one final pleading request. I shall keep one of these seeds, but the other is for you. These were to be your wedding gift, but now all I hope is that yours becomes an incunabulum of reconciliation. The day you set this seed to soil, I shall know you offer forgiveness. I will grow its twin here, in the earnest hope that we may one day meet again."

And now for something completely different: My 150-word piece.

The Emergency Call
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the secret Temple Knight headquarters, a Comm Orb crackled into life on the emergency frequency.

"Immediate response line, how can I help you?" asked the operator.

"Help!" shrieked a panicked voice at the other end, "This is Sir Vyver. Sir Tendeth has fallen and I think he might be dead!"

"Are you currently in danger? Tell me what happened?" replied the operator placidly.

"We had climbed a tree, in secret surveillance on our northern border," gasped the voice of Sir Vyver. "He slipped from the branch onto his head. I think the weight of his armour snapped his neck."

"Now stay calm and take a deep breath. Then tell me, are you sure he is dead?"

There was a pause, followed by the sound of a sword unsheathing and a sickening thunk.

"Yes, I'm sure he is dead. Now what?"

27-Sep-2012 22:30:23 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:44:00 by Aeraie

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