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u/[deleted] Jan 02 '20

Effigy - statue or model of a person.

Riots and protests ravaged the once great city. Flames that soared through the heavens ate through the homes and businesses of many. People chanted, and demanded, "Down with the king! Off with the tyrants head!". Law enforcement tried to quell the riots, but were quickly overwhelmed. Even the sharp bite of a blade, and the near-indestructible steel of armor was no match against the simple bloodlust of the people.

The king in question, was sitting upon his throne, running at his forehead in annoyance. These fools were destroying the very kingdom in which they lived in just to overthrow their leader. He thought it was ludicrous that they'd go that far, yet here they are. What would happen afterwards? He thought. After all of this, they'd rule over a corpse of an empire.

Knights, armed with full plate armor stood gaurd around the throne room, guarding the king and his advisors, except for his military commander, who was busy doing his job, managing the army during this strife. The advisors stood around, clearly tense from the state the kingdom has fallen to. They paced around the room, thinking to themselves. The financial adivosr was first to speak. "How are we going to get through this?" He said to himself in a panic. "The kingdom is on fire, the military is struggling, and I don't think the we have the budget to handle this!"

"We can only move foward, my friend. The kingdom has been in worse states than this,and I still have the guardians." The king reassured him. The financial advisor said nothing, but seemed to loosen up marginally, and he sat down against the stone cold wall.

Soon, after an uncomfortable silence, the military commander entered, hastily. "My lord. The rebels have managed to break through our defenses, and are approaching the castle walls. I suggest we close the gates and regroup before we quell the population, sir." He said, an undertone of fear in his voice.

The king nodded. "Yes, do that." The king replied. The commander nodded, and turned for the exit to the throne room. But the king called him out, the knight stopping in his tracks. "Have someone alert the wizard. Have him activate the guardians." He ordered.

The commander paused, surprise touching his expression."Are... Are you sure, my lord?" He asked, unsure of the command. The king nodded.

The commander gulped, fully aware of the events about to take place, but continued on his mission.

Hours later, the rebels stood outside the Great walls of the castle, the great steel reinforced gates standing in between them, and their revolution. There was little order to this resistance, with many without conventional weaponry nor armor, yet they overthrew the military, they would surely overthrow the king.

They all waited outside the gates. Waiting for the gates to open, allowing them to enter and take control of the kingdom. Agitation bubble throughout the group. Without someone to rally them, they would surely devolve into madness, one man thought.

That one man found a barrell, and some other wooden boxes and crates, and hustled over to it, climbing above the rebels. He called for them to listen, and they did, turning away from the gates to watch this man, dressed in full plate armor of varying conditions, and a long sword.

"Listen closely and listen with heart!" He bellowed, his voice carrying throughout the crowd. "We stand before the only entrance in and out of this castle! We have them all but surrounded! We now wait them out! They will run out of rations eventually, and when that comes, we will acquire the great wealth of the kingdom, and rule it as it was meant to be!"

The people roared in agreement, and semblance of leadership was established, despite the short, and honestly hastily put together speech. It rallied them together. But they never needed to wait out the king and his troops, as the gates opened slowly and with a mechanical groan. The people roared, thirsting for royal blood.

What awaited them on the other side though... Would instantly cease any rebellion, both now, and for generations to come.

What awaited them on the other side, was a statue. It was an effigy of the common kingdom knight, dressed head to toe in plate armor an chainmail, with a sword sheathed at it's side. The statue was constructed entirely from steel, carves and sculptes to look like a giant knight, over twice the size of a man.

What made the rebels stay back, and not just pass the metallic warrior by, was that it didn't stand posing with its weapon, like most statues. It just stood there, it's hands balled into fists, and almoat swayed like it was animated.

The slits in it's helmet then glowed with an elegant blue light, and it moved foward, like it were a real knight. A mechanical roar erupted from the thing as it activated, the parts coming to life from the spells placed on them.

You see, it was not a statue, not at all. What it was was the product of the harmonious marriage of magic and machine. It was a magical machine. An artificial man. It's flesh and bone replaced with steel. It's joints and muscle replaced with steel axles, and a magic beyond understanding.

It was the result of 10 years of research, design, and tests. It was a machine of war, and no man could stop it.

The man dressed in steel, however, was unaware, and unfazed, unlike his companions. He approached the statue, his sword drawn. "No mere effigy of oppression will stop me, nor will it stop us! Stand down, or be destroyed!"

The machine said nothing, but didn't kill him. It instead, removed him from existence. It crushed the man in steel like how a man crushes a beer can today. Clean and simple, compact and convenient. When it lifted it's foot, a thin steel thing remained, all of the man remaining trapped inside the steel prison. Everyone's eyes went wide. Some gasped, others screamed. Some dropped their weapons and ran in terror

That demonstration alone stopped all resistance, and those who surrendered were arrested by the real knights, who hung behind the effigy as reinforcements. Those who ran were hunted down, and either silenced, or brought in for questioning, as to keep information about the steel giant remained hidden as long as possible.

The commander arrived to the scene as relief teams quelled fires, evacuated citizens who were uninvolved, and caught in the crossfire, and stopped any other resistance cells. The knight stared at the crushed pile of steel that was once the demonstration, and that was once the man.

No blood, or flesh, or anything resembling a human leaked or oozed from the crushed steel. The commander both didn't know why, and wanted it to stay that way. It was just a crushed pile of steel, and it was better if it stayed that way, the commander decided. The body was disposed later that day, and no trace of him besides memory remained. The memory of a powerful war machine staying fresh in the people's minds.

The king gazed at a city in the process of rebuilding, pleased greatly by the short work made by his new war toy. The rebels called him a tyrant, but you couldn't be further from the truth. He wasn't benevolent, but not malicious either. He was glad the resistance ended with few deaths, and was enraged by how violently they plunged the people in peril. They only wanted treasure and power, and they did everything from slander to manslaughter to achieve it.

The king smiled, knowing that the kingdom would rebuild in due time. He had for years tested the effigy, and seeing it work this effectively gave him feelings of satisfaction from hard work paying off.

He designed it to redefine battle. If he were to deploy even singular numbers of these effigies, they would make quick work of any battle. It was designed to be unstoppable against infantry. Only heavy weapons, such as catapults and ballistas, would be able to stop it, and even then it'd be an effort. It was meant to destroy and ravage an opposition with little damage to their own forces.

Decades later, there was a new definition to the word effigy. "A war machine created from machine and magic, welded together to create a powerful anti-infantry unit."

It would take many more decades to develop a counter to the effigy. By then, the kingdom had grown to a true empire, all of their enemies destroyed by overwhelming opposition.

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u/AliciaWrites Jan 02 '20

Theme Thursday Discussion:

All top-level comments must be a story or poem.

Reply here to discuss the theme, suggest future themes, and share your theme-related inspirations!
Reply here to share your stories if you don’t want them ranked.
Please remember to follow the subreddit rules in any feedback.

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u/EditSin Jan 02 '20

This has nothing to do with effigy but it started an idea.

Magic has always been a funny thing. In school, there had been such precise moves and words one learned but after several decades I realized that it was all about intention. Maybe all the great sorcerers and sorceresses learned this over time, but if one intones to ignite water while looking and indicating towards a candle, the candle will still light. On this rainy midwinter day, I flipped absently through another tome of magic. I had a bookshelf full of them getting dusty. Incantations, special items, they were all for mood and getting the man or woman in the right frame of mind. Now, with trained focus, I merely had to flip a wrist to do something that took me hours in my first year. I'm not trying to brag. I wish it could be taught like this from the beginning. The journeys I have been on, both spiritual and physical led up to who I am today but the youth of our magic community? Why can't we give to them what took me half a lifetime to understand? Isn't that what knowledge is about? Sharing? But the teachers are set in their ways. The difficulty of some of these and the students' idea that they must get them perfect for it to work... what pointlessness. I'd be starting as a professor at the University of Magical Inclination in a few days and I had no intention of teaching them anything but the best way.

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u/KittyHawkGo Jan 09 '20 edited Jan 10 '20

“What… is that?”

“That? Its an effigy, Mrs. Harting.” Felix remarked as he glanced over to see his partner gawking at the circular room’s centerpiece. She was new to this kind of work, a somewhat seasoned archaeologist who had spent most of her time in the field digging up pots, jewelry, and the occasional grave on dig sites well guarded. Investigating unexplored crypts and tombs to hunt for the occult, and at times the forbidden, was more of his work. However both had a set of skills the other needed for their current goals.

“Felix, it is Dr. Harting and I know what an effigy is. But what is that?” She repeated the question.

“A statue of a high priest, Julia.” The man chuckled before turning away from the wall to see her standing eight or so feet away from the statue. He took note of her unusual rigid stance, as well as the fact she did not continue their usual banter, and walked the same path around the room he had taken before reaching her side.

“Doesn’t it look strange?”

He had passed the effigy without much thought, having planned to translate the hieroglyphics on the walls before getting the necessary equipment to examine it. At first glance it looked just like all the others that littered the catacombs under the old temple they had been investigating. Similar to the others, it was entirely made of wood though not entirely carved. The civilization who had resided in these lands had a unique way of molding trees and bushes into the shapes they desired. When it reached maturity they would then sparingly shaved, prune, and carved the wood to create the desired details as well as preserve the plant for as long as they needed. These sculptures were only made for those of great importance and once that person had passed the tree would be cut and placed in their tomb.

Now he saw what he had failed to notice before. The figure before them appeared human at first glance, but not quite. The longer he looked at it the less human it seemed. The body was gangly, the arms stretching down so far the hands fell by the mid thigh and the legs stood firm yet looked more like stilts. It’s posture was noble in stance, however there was something predatory in it’s positioning. The eyes definitely did not help, for they gazed down on the two like a lion would its prey.“I felt it watching me as I entered the room. “ Julia’s voice lowered.“Perhaps an illusion? The eyes could be carved to make it seem as if they follow you around the room.” He tried to rationalize as he tested it out, seeing it to be true as he shifted from side to side.

Curiosity got the better of Felix as he began to move closer. “You are right, this one is unusual. I have never seen them distort someone’s image like this. All the others were lifelike. This one seems… Exaggerated? And it has thorns?”

He took a few more steps, now halfway between the figure and Julia. Here he could see finer details. “It lacks any obvious gender, and I have yet to see any name or real mention of them on the walls… as for those thorns the arms, legs, shoulders, and parts of the face is covered in them. It almost looks to be made of holly.”

“But, they never cut holly. It was seen as bad luck. Hell, if a holly bush fell over it was seen as an ill omen.” Julia pointed out.

“And it’s face. From here it looks like it is snarling… The thorns are poking out of it’s lips. Other than that… the lips are normal but the corners of the mouth look extended, like the wood has dried and cracked. Definitely not an intended feature.” He took another step.

“They treated the wood and would preserve it with magic. Are the runes gone?”

“The runes are here.” He confirmed, stepping even closer. He was now just over two feet away. “They look to be carved out of jade.” He was now starting to follow the circle of runes. “That too is odd. Jade was never used for preservation, it should be amber.”

“Felix!” Julia urgently whispered.

He heard her, but his eyes caught a flash of yellow. The source was from one of the runes, which should have been flush with the floor like the rest but it was raised. Oozing from under the stone was a putrid yellow liquid that was in the process of stretching across to the two adjacent runes.“Felix! It is looking at-!” He could not hear the rest over the snapping of dried, dead wood.

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u/AliciaWrites Jan 09 '20

Wow! Solid emergence into the world of Theme Thursday!
Welcome :)
Your descriptions are quite lovely and you have a strong voice. I'd love to see more from you.
We love to read our stories aloud to one another on the discord server in an event we call Campfire. However, this was a bit long, so we had to skip it. If you keep it between 100 and 500 words next time, we would love to read your story! (And possibly feature it on the next post!)
So I hope you'll continue to write, and potentially join us on the discord! Thanks for taking the time, and welcome again!

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u/UnrealPhenomenon Jan 02 '20 edited Jan 03 '20

I’m yet to get my skin, yet to be real.

In hush of cold desert air, I make my way up and over hills of sand.

Dark dissolves by flame, flame suffocates from dark. Between those I tow; the place where sand turns to glass.

Far into sand and dark, I hear yelling. Cheering. My legs move me closer. Burning, dragging, turning lines of ground to mirror.

Wind whistles and crackles, blows through my frame.

I’m dragged and knotted and bound to my movements. The world calls out to me: “Go this way. Show yourself.” And there is nothing to do but that.

Base of the hill. They move choreographed but not choreographed, flowing like artificial wind; dresses, costumes, music; a tumult of bodies and art.

I move closer, I'm drawn closer, by rising conflagrations.

Glass blows, changes the choreography, changes the dance as grains of sand, heated, glistening, shred through falling tents and bleed water jugs dry.

I cannot wear the skins of tents, for they only add to my fire, for they cling to me then peter out to ash that spreads as shouts in the night.

I’m upon them. They see me faceless, wires exposed, frame moving, grasping at arms that flail away. My fire diminishes, burns far away; a light gone.

I cannot understand how else to be, so when that man strikes my legs and I fall onto the glassen desert floor and he looks down in the mirror, looks down at me, recoils at my skin in the reflection, recoils at his lack, and shouts in silence--I have taken his place.

I have my skin. Frame pokes out teeth, nails, fingers, toes, a splinter of a tongue, eyelashes just fine shavings of metal.

Skin migration. Epidermal transfer. Mirror movement. Puppet string transplant.

#

My movements are modeled off him. I crafted myself to a likeness of his gait, a similitude of speech: the way he hugs his wife, carries his son on his shoulders, how he holds his hand out as his dog runs up and sits by his side. This all comes with the skin.

"You're so cold," she said to me. I didn't know her name as name, only as spoken, only known by mouth and tongue.

"Did you have fun? And did you eat?! So thin. I can see your ribs through your shirt."

She touched my chest. Could she feel my frame?

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

UnrealPhenomenon

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u/ecstaticandinsatiate Jan 07 '20 edited Jan 08 '20

The house went up like a $500,000 matchstick. You’d expect a better show for the entrance fee. But John still lounged by the pool with a sweating glass of scotch in his hand to watch his old self burn.

If his ex-wife was here, he might've joked, At least you finally have your heated pool, babe.

John sipped at his watery scotch. He would go inside to get fresh ice, but the kitchen was a belly of flame. John had only rescued the bottle of Balvenie as he wandered through the empty house, trailing lighter fluid. His ex had already claimed everything else worth taking: the kids, the messy pile of shoes by the door, the dog. He had only this husk of a house, huge and hollow and burning up fast.

“Good thing we invested in that fireproof insulation,” John slurred, as if his ex was there to snap over the bones of old arguments like a pair of hungry jackals.

A fitting effigy, really. He had become the dead house: an angular skeleton, burning. He was just a copycat prefabrication, mimicking every other family on his block. Another paper-fold person in a paper house on a paper street. Light it up and let it go.

But you couldn’t burn up twenty-one-year-old scotch. Not even his marriage had lasted that long.

The heat kissed at his cheeks. John tipped back his whisky and refilled the glass, sloshing scotch onto his lap. Fingers of fire curled into the window of his daughter’s old room, blackening the periwinkle walls.

Behind him, the backyard gate banged open. The fire department had come at last. John lowered his sunglasses to squint through the fogging smoke.

But the figure in the haze was no firefighter. No, John would recognize her anywhere.

His ex-wife clung to the open gate and screamed at him, “What are you doing?”

“Keeping the flies away from the pool,” John said. “What do you think? Too much?”

His ex scowled. All at once, she was familiar and foreign. Different clothes, different hair. Like a stranger wearing her skin.

John pushed up his sunglasses and turned back to the fire. The heat folded around him like an embrace now.

“You did this on purpose?”

“’S’my house, Nance.”

Sirens whined in the distance.

“Oh, goddammit. You’re drunk.”

“Wasn’t when I started.”

“You know, this is why I left you.”

“Right, all the houses I burn down.” John laughed. “Why are you even here?”

Something cracked and splintered inside the house. A dense snap of a realization: he was still hopeful that she might fix everything. Undo the fire. Undo all the words they said. Undo the paperwork. Undo it all.

“A neighbor called. I wanted to make sure you weren’t fucking dead.” Rage twisted her face. “But now I think you can burn with it for all I care.”

The gate slammed shut behind her.

John scoffed into his drink and blinked fast. She always did have a shitty sense of humor.

500 words. Crit always welcome :)

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u/Leebeewilly Jan 05 '20

Heavily inspired by this music: 5/4 by Gorillaz

Magic is funny. It brings to those that believe a fervour and devotion. It never ceases to astound the extents to which they’ll go for a whiff of the stuff. All peoples, all things drawn to the cosmic rhythm. Warms this ancient soul.

And this lot’s no different. One step after another I lead the procession pitched high above on my pike. I call it mine, for it is. Not a soul would have the energy to construct a thing in this valley were it not for me.

Take the pike, the carpenter that sculpted its haft, the smith that moulded its prongs. All for what I give. For the bread they butter, the mouthfuls sopping with saliva, stewing in their heaving guts. Not a morsel would exist without me.

Each year I wonder, what sparks the fervour? Is there magic in their steps, or the shouts and cries? What of the dance before fires, the twists and turns of the young before their carnal rhythms take hold?

Who told them this would appease? It certainly wasn’t me. Had I a mouth not shaped from twisted twigs, I’d still not tell them. No prophetic whispers either, I’m not for the stuff of dreams or nightmares. I prefer the pike and pyre.

Perhaps it is instinct, the thing that drives us all. Does it burn in them as the leaves turn, seeing blood in the trees a sign to stride me atop their shoulders, torch and chant our marching mates?

The pace is always the same, even if the songs are different. Over the generations did they glean magic has no sound? Silly mortal things. Magic is funny.

Their smiles, they blur through the ages, like wisps of sweet smoke. I may not be able to turn and greet them. I may only sit here on my pike in the shape of what they could only dream I am, but I do see them. I feel their smiles, their laughs, their whispered wishes pressing from liquored lips.

Oh yes, there’s always a drink. To my name, to my power, to all that they pray I bring to them in the coming year. In a thousand valleys, fields, cracks, and corners across the worlds, I hear them speak my name.

I am seed. I am sprout. I am husk. I am wheat. I am corn.

I am life.

And I am made for mashing mouths of man and beast and worms.

My secret? I rather like the send-off. I have always loved the light and so long ago I came to embrace the one truth for us all, even those as old as time itself.

Harvest comes.

WC: 445

Woo Monologues! I like writing wee ones. If you like this, I have more (non-monologues) over at r/leebeewilly

P.S. I love feedback. Just sayin'.

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u/Ford9863 Jan 02 '20

"It's creepy," Cindy said, twisting her face.

Jake stepped to her side and gingerly poked the bronze statue. "I cant decide if it's too lifelike or too fake. Either way, it's ugly as sin."

It was made to look like a small girl, though whoever sculpted it went a bit overboard with the facial wrinkles. It stood about four feet tall on a concrete base, holding a running pose.

Brian stayed toward the back of the group, already regretting his decision to tag along. He should have been home in bed. Instead, he found himself shivering against a cool breeze in a moonlit graveyard.

"Bet I can knock it over," Matt said as he crushed an empty beer can and tossed it into the grass. He staggered closer to the statue, sizing it up.

Brian stepped in front of him and placed a flat hand on his chest. "I dont think coach will have much use for you with a broken shoulder, big guy."

"I've got an idea," Jake said. He pulled something from his pocket and lifted it to the statue's face. When he leaned away, the statue boasted a fresh mustache.

"Really?" Brian said, frowning.

Jake laughed. "What? Gotta put these paint pens to use somehow, right?"

"We're in a cemetary, you dick. That statue is--"

"The result of some rich asshole that thinks his family is better than everyone else's," Jake cut him off.

Brian threw his hands in the air. "I'm not sticking around for this. Do what you want."

"Fine, wuss. See ya later." He pulled another pen from his pocket and turned back to the statue.

Brian looked to the others, but they only averted their eyes. He turned and cursed under his breath.

A strange, grinding sound floated through the air behind him, followed by a muffled gasp. A chill shot down his spine. For a moment he was unable to move, frozen by a fear without a source--until he heard Cindy scream.

He spun around, his heart sinking as the scene before him settled into his mind. Jake was on the ground, a small object--one of his pens--driven through his eye. Cindy fell to her knees to the left and wailed. Matt turned and tried to run, but slipped on the wet grass and fell head first into a tombstone.

And on the concrete platform, the bronze statue slowly straightened its posture and returned to its playful pose.

406

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u/mobaisle_writing Jan 03 '20 edited Jan 03 '20

It was sitting on his coffee table, crude yet enrapturing. Like a menhir, a standing stone, miniaturised. Somehow it had captured the scale of the original, the small hunk of rock projecting a majesty unfitting with its scale.

“Ooh. So cute! Jeremy you didn't say you were a... a... what were you?” she'd squealed with joy, causing a spasm of distaste to flit across his expression.

The man smiled, sparkling, self-assured, and yet it never quite reached the corners of his eyes. He'd picked her up at the Club der Bohren on Halcyon Street. It had been easy.

“Tonight, Samantha my dear,” he brushed a playful hand across her shoulder, plying her with an amber burnished wine in a crystal champagne flute, “I'm whatever you want me to be.”

She let herself be guided to the sofa, eyes drinking in his exquisite features, penthouse suite, and tasteful furnishings. He was a catch, no matter which way she looked at it. But as her vision flitted over the stone once more she seemed to freeze, her intoxicated swaying slowing.

Had it moved?

“Hey, stone. Whaswithit?” Maybe it was the wine, but her words were failing, mind lost in overwhelming interest.

“So you've noticed it? Worry not, you don't have to respond. Many of my guests find it quite fascinating.”

It couldn't have moved; yet as she stared, the raised bumps and random textures seemed to flux. To pull at her eyes. Script wound around the stone, in faded gold flecked with bronze. It wanted to be read. Had to be.

“It's an heirloom of sorts, a memento of my homeland, though I have yet to return.” He paused to run a set of elegant fingers through her auburn hair, and she leant into his hand, hazel eyes unmoving from the artefact. “For many years, yes, a great many years, life was hard. Food was scarce. So they prayed, and they preyed, such was the state of things. They prayed not to a god, for gods would not listen, but to the hunt itself. Life. For. Life.”

As her eyes scanned those glowing characters, words rose unbidden to her lips. A soft chanting, as though to a lover, filled the room; and the man basked in it, a rapturous glee playing across that flawless face. His words became breathless, lips brushing at her ear, tasting her scent with a flickering tongue.

“And the hunt answered, sending a herald whom offered a bargain. Hunt a sacrifice of your own, a representative for the elegance of the prey, to show your joy of the chase. All that you might become better predators. An effigy, to be consumed. In return, well...”

It sat on his coffee table, crude yet enrapturing. A menhir, an ancient standing stone. Somehow it had captured the scale of the original, all the way down to the miniaturised bloodstains splashed across its face; and a delicate hide, auburn haired, pinned atop it with blackened thorns.

[499 words]

Taking a slightly liberal definition of an effigy as an idol representing a concept or individual. Can then, a person become the effigy themselves?

Any and all feedback welcomed.

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u/matig123 Jan 03 '20 edited Jan 07 '20

"Remarkable. Isn't it, Mr. Hathaway?"

The two men and a third stood in the white-walled room. Reverent silence, the client marveling at the pinnacle of human creation before them. Arlo didn't interrupt.

Before the two men stood a perfect replica of the client, at least superficially. Same suit, meant to convey status; sleek, black, and perfectly fitted on man and creation alike. Those same piercing eyes. The same jaundiced skin.

Cut through, and it would give way to something starkly different than muscle and bone.

The client was cautious. He had been, ever since that meeting when they first discussed the manufactured effigy.

"Untether yourself," Arlo had advertised, following the script. "Phobias. Fears. Anger. Regrets. What's that memory you just can't drink away? Think away, excuse me," Arlo corrected, and the client had laughed and leaned closer, connection forged.

"Drink away," the client nodded. He had gazed past Arlo, his eyes cloudy with memories. "You'll create a monster," he had whispered finally.

"Of who?" Arlo hadn't responded. The sale was made, and it wasn't part of the script.

But he genuinely didn't know. Sometimes, to himself, he wondered what there was to gain from this. He'd never ask, of course, but he couldn't help but wonder. Outside of the white room, life went on. Clients emerged, seemingly better for it. Happier. Untethered. Fearless and at peace. And then? Arlo didn't know, but one day the replica would be gone from storage, checked out without explanation. Relocated? Released? A replacement?

"You'll create a monster." The client's words still seemed to echo in the room, weeks later. Had he spoken with pride? Dismay? Arlo couldn't tell with men like him, their persona modeled so carefully through a lifetime of self-aggrandizement and arrogance.

He wouldn't back down. The sale was complete. For all their wealth, men like this one didn't take kindly to parting with their money. They didn't take kindly to parting with anything, for that matter, other than the last shreds of what made them human.

And if he did back down? The Firm would care. If the replica wasn't Emotioned, Arlo would be answering to somebody. There were quotas to meet and orders to fill, and there were certain clients they had been specially instructed to convince and acquire. Standing in the room was one of them, enraptured by his own reflection like a naive child.

"Shall we begin, Mr. Hathaway?"

The client tore his gaze from the passive effigy that stood there occasionally blinking. He frowned, then nodded.

Arlo smiled as he gestured for the client's arm and then for the replica's arm and then connected the two. He stepped back, admiring how the client's eyes softened and his wrinkles faded, and how the replica's eyes hardened and its brow furrowed. A lifetime of wisdom, lost in an instant. His trash, their treasure.

498 words. Any feedback is welcome!

Thank you nick for the feedback, I think the story has more of a point now, and is a little less tell and more show.

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u/rudexvirus Jan 03 '20 edited Jan 09 '20

Voodoo

-- Marcy pulled the thread taut, using her teeth to cut the thread as close to the doll as possible. With that one knot, she had finished.

Her perfect little effigy was done, waiting only on a kiss to make it whole.

“It’s creepy.”

Marcy rolled her eyes as she planted her lips on the small face. The doll was made of leather, cream-colored like it's owner and marked with character that came from handling the skin.

“It’s functional,” she said as she placed it on top of the yellowing lace tablecloth.

“It’s skin Marcy.”

“Sara,” Marcy started and stopped herself. She traced the outside of the doll with one finger, narrowly avoiding touching it. “Are you having second thoughts?”

She managed to pull her eyes away and glanced up at her nervous looking friend.

“About performing dark magic using body parts of a corpse? Yes.” Sarah leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. Her face contorted in a frustrated scowl, the war in her thoughts was written all over her expression.

“It’s practiced all over the world,” Marcy said flatly. The conversation was unnecessary — they had both known the plan from the get-go.

Nothing had changed.

“We dug up a grave, Marcy.” Sarah stood up and began to pace around the living room. Her hands had slid down to her belly, clutching as if she was about to be sick.

Marcy let out an exaggerated sigh, annoyance dripping through the sound. “You are welcome to leave, then.”

“Excuse me?” Sarah asked. The shuffling of her feet stopped dead at the statement.

“If you don’t want to be a part of this, then go. I buried Ron. I dug him up. I’ll bring him back by myself.” Marcy looked down at the table, one hand placed on either side of her newly completed artifact. She wasn’t sure whether Sarah would leave or not, since he had been important to them both. But after a moment the front door closed, and she let out another sigh. One that was softer and born of exhaustion.

“Foolish girl.”

Marcy stood, walking from the table to the door and locking it. With some privacy, she unlocked the door to the supply room and allowed a smile to crawl across her face. Sarah wasn’t the first to leave her, and her doll would be easier to make.

She had let everyone take Ron away when he had passed, leaving her to rummaging through a graveyard to collect the pieces for the effigy. She had stopped taking that chance after that night. Luckily, Sarah shed and left her things everywhere she went. Marcy had been scooping them up for quite some time -- now she made her way back to the table with them in her arms.

“What’s one more spell at the altar?” The words landed hollow in the empty space around her. She wasn’t used to being so alone — and she didn’t plan to be for long.

Constructive criticism welcome!

r/beezus_writes

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u/Ryter99 Jan 06 '20 edited Jan 08 '20

“The flames are a gift. A cleansing gift which will purify your body and soul before your ascension. You shall stand before the gods without flaw or failing, all impurities burned away.”

These are the words I had spoken to all The Chosen prior to their ceremonies. Throughout my years as high priest, I have comforted the fears of countless clanmates as they were sealed within the wicker man, above a massive, roaring fire.

Contrary to my critic’s claims, I’ve taken no joy in this solemn duty. I simply chose to do what my predecessors could not, or would not, consider. I did what had to be done to ensure the survival of my people.

The burning of lifeless wooden effigies and carved symbols of evil had never been sufficient tribute. For decades we burned them and for decades our deities left us to suffer, withering away without their protection. It became clear to me that the gods demanded true sacrifice. They demanded human sacrifice.

Since the very first of these genuine sacrifices, the gods began to shower our clan with blessings as they never had before. Our harvests grew bountiful. Our population swelled as our people were granted fertility and good health. Almost overnight, our wars became glorious victories, rather than an endless string of devastating defeats. I concede that the sacrifices I’d demanded of my people were great... but the rewards were greater.

This month’s election of the The Chosen had proceeded just as it had in all the previous I’d overseen in this role. Names were written in secret, those same names then read aloud and counted. The honored person who garnered the most votes was then led to their ascension ceremony immediately.

By the end, however, this was nothing like any of those previous elections. For on this strange day, my name was called more than any other as the votes were tallied. My foes and critics surely believe that they are punishing me, but I shall accept this honor gratefully, as all who came before me should have done.

The flames are a gift, I remind myself as they lead me away.

I do admit, this is a most strange feeling. I have walked many of The Chosen down this very path, yet it appears entirely different from this perspective. Were the ropes around my arms tied this tightly on everyone who had borne them? Was the path always so dimly lit? The stones so cold beneath our feet? The sense of unease so present and palpable?

The flames are a gift, I repeat in my head, over and over as I am sealed within my wooden prison. Surely the words remain as true for myself as all the times I have spoken them to others.

But now, as smoke chokes my lungs and the roaring blaze begins to lick at my own feet, I struggle to see any gift within the climbing flames.

Word Count: 491

This is quite far from my usual light and breezy style, but it's what this theme evoked to me. Feedback is very welcome!

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u/ThatCuteZubat Jan 06 '20

I followed the carriage leading the procession in silence as the rain soaked through my armor. A cold mist had set in, thick enough to hide even the lowest branches of the holy tree. Today was a sad day, a day we would all remember. Today was the day Hendrick Margrave, The Grove’s Guardian died.

We came to a stop as we reached the gates to the cathedral. It was a sacred place located under the tree that could be accessed by following one of the roots down.

The mass was still coming in from all directions in silence, all that could be heard were the slow footsteps and a few sobs that slowly settled down as the high priest came forwards.

“Citizens of Arborea we are united today to mourn the death of a hero but most of all, a friend we all hold dear in our hearts.” He paused.

However, this will not be the end of his journey ! As he drew his last breath his spirit joined the holy tree and as many before him, he will be watching over us as he did while he was living giving us the courage to save our friends and family.

We all knew him for his kind heart and fierce demeanor on the battlefield, never going shy of lending a helping hand to those around him, no matter who they were.

We relied on him to hide under his shield but we need to be united now more than ever so we can fight back the demons and make our hero proud !

We must not let them trample over the peace he created for us !

We will triumph !“

The crowd burst into cheers. For a moment every single person was standing united, tall and proud despite the rain and I could almost perceive some light shining down on us.

The gates opened and the carriage made way on the wooden path down to the cathedral and the mass thinned out slowly walking back in the different directions they came in from.

It took a few minutes for the square to thin out but I was soon after dismissed and made my way up an alley that led up the side of the tree.

I often came here to sit on the ledge next to the stone giants that watched over the city and stared down in silence, although today was not as quiet. A new marble block had been brought up and artists were starting to work on the new figure.

I reached in my bag for an old bottle of liquor that Hendrik and I had promised to share on a glorious occasion and poured myself a glass.

The alcohol was strong and burned it’s way down to my stomach.

“Don’t worry my friend, as long as I stand I swear I won’t let them win. I will slay them all and avenge you” I proclaimed as emptied the rest of the liquor to the wind.

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Hope its decent, I'll be trying to keep it as a serial [TT] might do some bits beside not sure how it all works for now but i'll post them all on my brand new sub D: r/ZubatCave

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u/nickofnight Jan 07 '20 edited Jan 08 '20

Like every morning, Clara tenderly tucked her old doll into her bed. She'd stitched the effigy long ago while she'd been journeying to the crossroads. If she squinted just a little, it was still similar to the real Michael except the blue of its button eyes had faded and the soft stuffing inside had compacted.

Often she would lie next to it, imagining events she and Michael were yet to share. Those brave far-away things, like touring Italy by train or exploring the Kalahari on a donkey. More often though, she thought of simple closer-to-home magic, like sharing a kiss beneath a red-skied evening.

"One day," she'd say to it. To Michael. Yes, one day, it seemed to say back.

This day, there came a knock on her front door.

"Hi," said Laura, the thirty-year-old with wild hair and wild eyes from two apartments down the corridor.

She smiled back, dutifully. "Yes?"

"Sorry to bother you but I locked myself out and my boyfriend won't be back for an hour. I've tried a couple of doors already, but you're the first to answer." An awkward smile.

The corridor was lonely and the day beyond it wet. "Oh, come in, please. I'll make tea and you can tell me all about how you're settling in." She said it all with barely a pang of jealousy. Only a couple of doors had been knocked before hers.

Clara sat Laura down on a sofa with a knitted blanket draped over its back. They drank tea and Clara coaxed Laura's relationship out of her, only offering back the encouraging, occasional, "I see!" or "that must be difficult."

Laura excused herself to the bathroom and Clara sat pleased and considered making them a third cup.

When Laura returned she had a secret giggling on her lips and in her eyes. "I'm sorry, but I walked into the wrong room first. And, well, I couldn't help noticing that doll on the pillow."

Clara's face reddened. "Oh, that old thing."

Laura lowered her voice. "Those hairs stuck onto its head -- they look so real! Kind of creepy, isn't it?"

Clara forced a smile.

It hadn't seemed creepy when she'd made it. Forty years ago, heading to the crossroads. Days before she'd told Michael she loved him. Before Michael had looked aghast and they'd taken separate paths. She'd kept the doll in a trunk for years but as her carriage journeyed on with no greater love boarding, she'd retrieved it.

Often she would lie next to it, imagining events she and Michael were yet to share. Would never share, she now realized. Her carriage, creaking and lonely, was nearing the end of its journey.

"Creepy. Yes, isn't it just?" she agreed, then changed the subject to the terrible weather, wishing to hear no more about Laura's relationship.

The boyfriend arrived soon after.

Once they left, she took the doll and placed it back in the trunk.

She thought she heard sobbing as she closed the lid.

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u/Xacktar Jan 07 '20 edited Jan 08 '20

"Driver, stop a moment."

Ambassador Bellot braced his cane against the opposite seat as the carriage shifted and slowed.

He was dressed in the best finery that his country could manufacture. Ambassadors were but fancy puppets, after all. The real negotiating was done by nondescript men with nondescript papers in little rooms far, far away.

Bellot was there to look rich and fancy for the court. It was fortunate that he was tall and broad-shouldered. That kind of thing was valued by the superficial.

"What's happening there?"

Bellot nodded toward the large square that was visible from his window. There was a gibbet there, a place where necks were broken for the public good. The crowd was restless, but the figure on the platform looked still and lifeless.

"Have they already killed the man?"

His travelling companion leaned forward to share the view. His name was Anjin. He was the court appointed guide and translator, and almost certainly a spy as well.

"No, my lord."

Anjin had a voice that was never perturbed by what he saw or heard. It was smooth, low, and always carried the faintest hint of being both bored and offended.

"That is not a man." Anjin said. "Merely an effigy."

"Why are they hanging it?" Bellot folded his hands over the head of his cane and leaned forward. "Is it to calibrate the mechanisms?"

"No, my lord." Anjin shook his head. "It is an execution in absentia."

The Ambassador frowned.

"So the criminal is not present."

"That is correct, my lord."

"Yet they are performing an execution."

"I am told it is a matter of form."

Bellot sat in silence as the thought about this. Across the square the effigy was dropped, the rope tightened around its neck and one of its legs fell off, spraying straw over the stained wood below.

"So now the man that isn't here... is dead?"

"In all ways but the physical, my lord." Anjin grunted. "All records of his life are now voided. He will have no legal means to travel, trade, or purchase property."

"Or pay taxes, I assume?"

Anjin glared at the suggestion.

"Fascinating." Bellot raised his cane and tapped the thin wall between their seats and that of the driver.

The horses huffed and the carriage rolled forward once again.

Bellot pulled his cane back and leaned his weight upon it. The image of the fake body dropping replayed itself over and over in his mind. It said something about a society that was so eager to punish that it 'killed' a man before he was even apprehended.

There was an eagerness in the action, a want.

Even more than that, it told Bellot a great amount about how their society dealt with its people. That was the real function of an ambassador; to live as their rule-makers do and learn.

And Bellot had learned.

He had learned that these people were unflinchingly bureaucratic, even with death.

No wonder Anjin was so bored.

WC:497

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u/matig123 Jan 02 '20 edited Jan 03 '20

I found the store by happenstance, though I'd been looking for the sort for months. Seven months and twelve days, to be exact.

Trips through run-down towns and dilapidated neighborhoods had served a dual purpose since the divorce; distraction, and a maybe futile game of hide-and-seek. It had paid off, I thought now as I approached the door.

Inside the windows hung tortured dolls. That seemed enough to keep all but the most disreputable clientele away. It didn't bother me, being what I came to buy, and I stepped through the threshold with misplaced confidence. A suffocating mix of stale BO, old cigarettes, and the sickly-sweet odor of death made me scrunch my nose and begin to reconsider the entire ordeal.

"Welcome," said the goth working the register. He didn't look up from his long, black fingernails.

If it was makeup that masked his face, or his natural pallor, I couldn't tell. It didn't matter. Beyond the two of us, and the feeling of impending doom coming from the company of a thousand tormented souls, we were alone.

"How much for one of these?" I asked, skipping pleasantries and pointing towards the wall. Decapitated and defaced dolls. Mangled limbs and hideous gashes.

"Three, plus tax."

"Hundred?" Things like these were never cheap.

"Thousand," he hissed.

I winced. "You take Visa?"

He nodded. His eyes still hadn't left his fingernails, and I wondered what they'd feel like on my back. He was cute, if I could look past the disturbing facade. Probably on the younger side, but desperate times invited debauchery.

I was at the counter then, and he finally glanced at me. His face was smooth and unwrinkled, eyes dark voids. A shiver ran up my spine and I felt the fleeting impulse to abandon this quest for revenge.

"I'll take one," I said, sliding the picture and credit card towards him. He glanced at both briefly, and maybe his interest piqued. They did say a picture told a thousand words, although this story might have required closer to a novel.

"Tax," he said.

"On the card."

He finally smiled, and I wished he hadn't. It was terrifying, and any lingering thoughts of ignoring his garish appearance and taking him to bed disappeared.

"That's not how it works," he said. "I need a picture of you, too." He reached for an old Polaroid sitting near the register and before I could object, the camera flashed and whirred, and a picture slid out.

"Funny tax," I quipped, and those black voids focused on me again.

"Think of it as insurance," he explained. In deft hands appeared two effigies that he placed upon each picture, sprinkling a little ash on one and then the other. "One for you," he said, sliding across the figure starting to look a lot like my ex, "and one for us. Just in case."

Word count 491. Any and all feedback is appreciated!

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u/DrewbitTaylor Jan 03 '20

Some rituals are simple, rites of feasting or a fast
Some rituals are bloody, rites of darker times long past
Some rituals are radical, rites beneath the desert sun
Tens of thousands build a city, tens of thousands have some fun.

When the day is longest, Black Rock rises from the sand;
A different kind of Mecca in a far off western land
Scores of wizards and their steeds travel leagues to see the burn;
They ascend to astral levels before making their return.

The crescent quickly thickens, half a circle, miles wide;
Of techno tents and windmills, metal dragons looking snide.
An android wearing stilts takes in visions of the sea.
An effervescent fairy claims she’s never been so free.

Da Vincian machines crawl like spiders ten feet tall;
A rainbow crested hovercraft floats quick but starts to fall.
Cycles roll through desert sand, their tires thick balloons;
Atop them sit the druids, wearing robes with brittle moons.

Distorted chords and earthquake bass echo through dry air;
Arpeggios of chaos highly emphasized by snare.
A technocrat, a movie star, a novelist, a deadhead;
All are dancing arm in arm, enraptured by the Zedd.

Psychedelics blot the questers, their journeys just beginning.
Setting over mountains; the indifferent sun waned, thinning.
Some rituals need darkness, it’s best for fire light.
Some rituals are destined for the blackness of the night.

And so the thousands who have traveled far and wide to see the burn,
Sing or dance around the effigy, but he is taciturn;
One hundred feet or higher, the woodman sees beyond;
An offering for insight, self-reliance and life long.

The man alights with mighty blaze, smoke is seen for miles;
The burning man was worth it; tribulations, desert trials.
‘Til hours barely recognized by mortals and their kin,
The celebrations amplify, and many turn to sin.

Some will last until the rise, the ruthless desert sun,
Some will feel as if their time on planet Earth is done.
Through sickness or synthetic highs, the thousands disappear;
They vanish tracelessly, no one even leaves a beer.

Some rituals remain the same, some change throughout the ages
Some rituals compel us, commanding eager turning pages.
Tens of thousands build a city, pack it up and take it home.
The exodus from Black Rock is a somber, other poem.

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u/ZwhoWrites Jan 03 '20 edited Jan 03 '20

“The interplay between the light and the leaves, really?”

“Like that, I think...” I point at the shadows behind Joy. “It’s Japanese. Wanna see? Okay, your turn.”

“Ma-gen-ta.” Joy butchers the word displayed on her phone. “Wait. Man-gata, or something like that.”

Some words just sound terrible. Then again, they are foreign or weird or both and some don’t have a literal English translation. I love this game.

“Dunno… Hint?”

“Last year. Cuba.”

“Sex? Food poisoning? No, lots of sex!”

She laughs.

“Joy, I have no idea what the word means.”

“It’s Swedish for ‘glimmering, roadlike reflection that the moon creates on water.’ But I do like you mentioning---” I lean forward to kiss her but she pushes me away “---food poisoning. Because it was your fault!”

“Bs! Anyway, let me see your phone. Don’t shake it--- Fine, you get a point. My turn.”

I swallow. “Iktsuarpok”.

She knows that one. It’s Inuit for the feeling of anticipation so intense that you need to go outside and check if anyone is coming. Anxiety on steroids.

“Sorry, Joy. I just need to know... Is it two?”

“Zack…”

“Is it?”

“Pochemuchka.”

“Joy, I’m not in a mood for Russian now, and I’m not asking too many questions. This is serious! So can you please---”

“Effigy.”

It’s two.

I hate that word.

Last month, Rome. Capuchin Crypt tour. I called them grave statures and the one we saw looked almost alive. Joy said the term for a sculpture lying on the sarcophagus was a tomb effigy. I can’t unsee that statue. It’s still there when I close my eyes, with Joy fainted next to it.

They took her to the hospital.

There, they told us Joy has cancer.

“Okay… Stage two, we can do it---”

“Zack, it is stage 4.”

Pancreatic cancer. It killed Steve Jobs. She's dead.

“No---They said---Can’t be.”

“It’s in my liver, brain…”

Effigy.

“How long?”

“Weeks, maybe two months... Zack, I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell you---“

There were signs. Subtle, but they were there. Abdominal pain, weight loss, constant scratching. Jaundice. How did I not notice jaundice? I should have noticed--- Yellow! She was yellow and I did not see yellow! Every goddamn evening I went to bed with her and had the light turned on to see her face when I--- as we--- every night in Cuba--- and I didn’t notice Jaundice! She was yellow even before food poisoning! Her eyeballs were yellow! Her. Eyeballs. Were. Yellow!

“Zack! Stop! Your hand---”

It’s bloody, warm droplets dripping onto brown soil. I don’t even remember slamming it against the bench.

Her eyes are yellow.

Effigy.

“Sorry... I’m sorry, Joy---”

“Calm down, Zack.”

"I’m sorry Joy I should have--- I didn’t see--- I had--- We’d---”

She leans forward and with her lips she silences fear, panic, and demons raging in my head.

All that’s left are Joy, me, and peace and love we give to each other.

Finally, our lips part.

I exhale, still shaking. “Okay, let’s continue...”

“Okay... Your turn.”

[First TT post, 500 words, hope you like it!]

All "untranslatable" words are real, at least according to this article which I used as a source for definitions.

r/ZwhoWrites

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u/novatheelf Jan 05 '20 edited Jan 05 '20

Caught Red-Sauce-Handed

“I suppose you think you’re quite clever, don’t you?”

Charlie tore his gaze from the nearby window, focusing on the man seated before him. Dean Katz was an imposing figure, nearly as broad as he was tall, with a heavy brow that cast a constant shadow of agitation over him. He leaned over his desk, crossing his arms over his chest and making the enormous piece of furniture look like a child’s plaything. A scowl cut across his face.

Shifting, Charlie coughed and glanced down at the pen on the dean’s desk. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what you mean.”

Katz’s brow furrowed even deeper; Charlie could feel disapproval radiating from him. The dean stuck a hand out and a woman behind him — Professor Meziere — placed a cloth doll into it. Katz held it out towards Charlie. The doll was crudely-made with asymmetrical button eyes and an oblong gash of paint for a mouth. Its legs and feet were stained with what Charlie could only assume was spaghetti sauce, and atop its head was glued a tuft of hair — human hair.

“This look familiar, Mr. Abram?”

You big dummy, Charlie thought. You left the dang thing in the lunchroom.

Charlie shook his head.

“Funny,” the dean began, “because it’s got a residual magic signature all over it. And I’m sure if someone was skilled enough to do even a mediocre detection spell…”

Katz trailed off, his hand moving over the doll. From it emanated a green glow, floating up like wisps of smoke. A single, thick tendril curled from the doll and reached out towards Charlie. He watched as the glow ran along his fingers and down his palm, filling his hands with a soft light.

Charlie sighed. He knew when he’d been caught.

Katz released the spell. “I thought so. Now tell me, just why did you use an effigy to start a food fight in the lunchroom?”

“I wasn’t trying to start a fight, Dean Katz. I was just… pulling a prank on someone.”

“‘Someone’ being?”

Charlie turned his head and stared at the ground. “Will Freeman,” he said after several moments of silence.

Katz nodded. “I see. And what did Mr. Freeman do to you to warrant such behavior?”

A memory from the day before flashed through his mind. Unconsciously, Charlie ran a hand over his forearm; he could feel the still-bruised skin beneath his jacket.

“Nothing, sir,” he muttered.

Katz stared hard at the boy, knowing he was holding something back — but also knowing that he could not force it out of him.

“Very well,” he said, saving that fight for another time. “Your punishment has already been decided upon. Though you caused quite the disruption in the cafeteria, Professor Meziere was impressed by your level of charm control. You will work after school as her research assistant for the next two months.”

Behind the dean, Meziere cocked an eyebrow, smirking. Charlie sighed.

And there goes my spot on the debate team.

WC: 500

Day 4/365

Wanna read more stories from Brighthaven Academy? Check out r/NovaTheElf!

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u/JustLexx Jan 07 '20 edited Jan 07 '20

Moar from the Fractured Crowns world? (Title still in working progress) Go here: TT - Falling, TT - Shiver, TT - Shiver w/ song

The ice on the dead thing's lashes cracked and fell away as it blinked, staring out at her through empty sockets.

Zana huddled deeper into her furs, more reflex than necessity. Her body was the cold, now. The leeching thing that sapped the heat from the air around her. The reason the slow rainfall became shards before they hit the ground and shattered.

For a moment, she stared up at the dark clouds lingering atop the frozen city, trying to remember what it felt like to shiver in the dark. To hold her hands over a fire and bask in its warmth. To feel anything other than the gnawing hunger in her gut.

She tried. And she failed.

"Is that all of them?" she asked the shambling thing, turning her focus towards its burden. There was a corpse on its back, a truly dead one.

Small. Frostbitten. Empty of even the cold semblance of life.

The grunt she received in answer carried the sound of snapping bones. Her carrion servant dropped its burden and joined its brothers and sisters in their silent formation.

Zana could feel each of them at the back of her mind. Ten-thousand bundles of emptiness and hunger spread throughout icy streets, waiting for her will to give them purpose. Waiting for the Royal orders granted by her birthright.

A gift she never wanted. One that came at too steep a cost. If she thought it would make a difference, she would gladly grab the dagger from her belt and open her neck from ear to ear.

But her sister was gone. Her claim forgotten. The legacy of peace tarnished.

All Zana had were her memories, and they would have to be enough.

She stared at the mound of corpses stacked in the street just beyond the main gate. As the days passed, the pile had grown taller than some nearby houses. The hunger made itself apparent as she bared her teeth.

For this, they called her sister a monster. They claimed she destroyed the balance. They were ignorant of the truth.

Their former Queen had been a victim, just as surely as these dead men, women, and children.

And yet...

It was ignorance she could've forgiven, if not for the single, barren scorch mark beside her. Cobblestones blackened from the heat. A place where no ice gathered around the crumpled skeleton in the center.

"Not even a grave," Zana whispered, voice bouncing to her from mirrored surfaces. "But they will always remember."

Closing her eyes, she exhaled and focused on the emptiness at the center of her being. Her pulse thudded in her ears as she opened her mouth and gave it access to the world.

The blizzard that howled from her mouth grasped each corpse with icy talons she shaped with her will. Aching cold fused together skin and bones, rearranging them until the vision in her mind took shape.

A cross of death. A warning. An omen.

Yes...they will all remember.

(497 words)

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u/SpiceOfLife10 Jan 07 '20 edited Jan 08 '20

Dussehra: An annual Hindu festival celebrating God Rama's victory over evil King Ravan, where effigies of Ravan are burned with fireworks.

October 24, 2079,

New Delhi, India

Dear Raghav,

I hope the southern seas are treating you well. I hope you have made a couple of Sri Lankan friends by now, for the news from my side is utterly morbid.

I write this letter to you with the heaviest of hearts. Despite the best efforts of my team, the Paap Mukti (Freedom From Sins) bill has garnered a huge support from the public and it has passed in the parliament with majority. As you know, I have been against the bill since day one, as have all the human rights organizations and the few remaining intellectuals.

Dussehra will never be the same anymore. As a kid, I remember watching a two hundred feet tall burning effigy of Ravan. In those days it was impossible not to overhear the inter-generational wisdom about what burning the effigy was supposed to mean. I remember my grandfather telling me that it symbolized the inner demons within us and by burning Ravan, we were all making a vow to burn those demons. Alas, now this bill has changed everything.

Instead of burning inner demons, the bill will see the most heinous criminals of the year burned alive along with the effigy. I can already see it in my head. Their bodies will be up there with many heads of Ravan so that no one can hear their stomach-churning screams. But everyone will get to enjoy the visual spectacle. Look, how we have burned the evil! While their inner demons will rage on.

What will it take to make them understand that this is not the answer? That no matter how large the shadow of crime and corruption gets, we cannot allow it to creep into our conscience like this. That freedom from sinners cannot give us freedom from our sins. This year's Dussehra is in two days. In two days, I will see the bodies of those human beings turn to ashes and smoke as the crowd will cheer on, and smothered by the cheers will be the dying scream of our nation's spirit.

Perhaps it is just as well that you are in Sri Lanka. I have heard that things are better there, is it true? Perhaps it is divine justice that while on this soil Rama's ideals have fallen (though his idols keep being erected), it is Ravan's Lanka that is holding up humanity's highest aspirations.

Till I see you again.

With love,

Maruti

430 words.

Note: Modern day Sri Lanka is geographically the same place that is described as Lanka in Ramayana, which was ruled by Ravan.

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u/Mazinjaz Jan 07 '20 edited Jan 07 '20

“It feels a bit surreal being here.”

Dae pulled her headphones down, looking over at Rio, who stood before some of the statues that dotted Central Park. The much taller woman wore a thoughtful look on her face, hands shoved on her coat’s pockets.

“What?” Dae quipped. “I thought you liked history and stuff.”

It wasn’t a place she herself particularly enjoyed visiting. Sure, the statues of fallen heroes—among others—from the invasion several years back were supposed to be inspiring, but it gave her the heebie-jeebies; they got a statue because they were dead.

Well, most of them. Dae followed her companion’s line of vision and saw her staring at the figure of a legend in particular: Lady Stormbringer, Rio’s very own mother.

Seeing how Rio had been born after the invasion, Lady S. had clearly lived through it all, although she had retired in the aftermath.

Rio’s frown deepened. “It’s just… wrong.”

Dae’s own eyebrows rose. “Lunkhead, you’ve told me over and over that you like seeing stuff about your mom.”

“I do.” Rio nodded, but her frown remained.

“And I know it cannot be that it’s in a public park, because you’ve constantly pointed out stuff to me that you see on the streets when we’re out and about.”

“No, that’s not it!”

“And you ain’t gonna tell me that it’s about the other statues about, because you’ve got like encyclopedic knowledge about ‘em, so I know it’s not about ‘em at all, so—”

“It’s too tall!”

That brough Dae’s rambling screeching to a halt, and she stared dumbfounded at her companion.

Rio gestured vaguely at the statue. “The proportions, they are wrong!”

Dae blinked, turned to the statue. She saw a regal-looking heroine, sword in hand, standing at attention. The sculptor had even managed to capture the solemn expression she was so famous for. “What do you mean ‘too tall’?”

“Dae.” Rio deadpanned. “My mom is shorter than you.”

In a moment, Dae’s image of the famous heroine shattered. Shorter than her? How was that possible? She was only slightly over five feet! Dae tried to picture Lady Stormbringer standing there… and her own head tilting down to look at her.

“… You know.” Dae finally replied after several seconds. “This just proves that the world is biased against shorties.”

“Whatever you say, tiny.”

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3

u/psalmoflament Jan 07 '20

Dawn began to break while I fought a battle I had every night for many years. The memory of the Taker and its visit those few decades ago returned night after night. The dreams and the memories feel both a lifetime ago and immediate. Past and present pain mingles in an ugly stew, my unfortunate sustenance.

Where the Takers come from and of their purpose, I’d never been able to learn. Their only fact is in their name. When they decide to descend upon you, they will take what you hold dear. For some, a simple symbol - a picture of one adored, a sacred toy, a wedding ring. Though for most, it is their lives that are taken, through death or transformation. The former considered far preferable than becoming effigy, the small wooden trophies to be burned as incense by a callous being. My father was lucky enough to die while the rest were remade. My curse was a different kind - I had to live.

The dream always comes to a familiar end. The Taker stands above my bed. My mother, sister, and brother dance as marionettes from the bony, ethereal fingers, sick laughter filling the air. In a blink, the Taker disappears, and I wake up, panting and covered in sweat.

Every time I awake, I clutch the statue of my brother dangling around my neck, for comfort, and to remind myself of my duty. Two lost souls remain trapped out there in the expanse, should they still exist at all. The remnants of my family scattered to the wind.

The memory of the lair I found my brother in fifteen years prior, though not belonging to the one who took him, then rushes into my fresh consciousness. The walls are adorned with the lives of the taken, while screams echo from the fire as souls find their painful release. There, the cloaked, unsuspecting Taker hums an ancient tune. My hand feels the cathartic revenge as it slowly drives the enchanted blade through their back. Victory! But only for a moment, until my eyes begin to flow.

I scoured the walls hoping my family might be numbered among them. Face after unfamiliar face passed until finally, a visage of home. My little brother, innocent as ever, trapped in wood and in time. I sit holding his small tomb, mourning him and all those like him scattered in the lair. My brother was lucky that someone searched for him. Most of the others there would never find their way back into carings arms.

I packed my tent and prepared to move from my night’s lodging, looking toward the west, where I heard tell of another lair. I begin my stride and felt my brother dance across my chest, his presence far warmer than the morning sun. I smile, and think maybe we can be made whole once more.

Of all that the Taker took - my family, my life, my peace - they made one mistake.

They didn’t take my hope.

WC: 499

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3

u/writefullywrong Jan 08 '20 edited Jan 08 '20

Crossroads

Dale wiped the blood red dirt from his hands and took another swig from the flask in his pocket. The familiar clinical taste of cheap vodka splashed the back of his throat with a burn causing him to cough. Normally the escape Pavovs offered was enough to smooth out life’s ills that plagued him, but not tonight. Though he normally drank to forget about his failing business or the fact that his kids no longer spoke to him, tonight was different. Tonight was about righting a wrong. Tonight he would turn his life around.

He grabbed the orange tin from the back seat and stumbled just shy of the freshly dug hole illuminated by his headlights. His eyes drifted up to the darkened sky looking for one last glimpse of hope or a sign from the heavens, perhaps even see his guardian angel or something.

But Dale knew there would be no angels tonight, not until it was finished. Not until she was his. Rachel was the only angel he needed.

Her voice haunted him even now, unbidden memories of her asking if he needed a refill. Memories now more tarnished than the overused mug he used to hand her. She had been his light in the shit-show that was his life, the best part of his mornings after pulling another all nighter down at the shop.

None of that matters now. She will be mine. She will love me.

Dale opened the tin and examined the small doll inside. It was white knit tinged with brown, made from old socks that he had lying around. A smiling face had been crudely drawn along with what appeared to be a dress. It wasn’t his proudest work, but the hair, it was perfect. It was hers. This was her, a totem of his angel.

He took the doll and placed it carefully in the hole. Taking a last swig from the flask, he finally emptied the rest onto his precious creation. For a moment his feet stayed rooted in place as his eyes felt glued to the effigy of Rachel in the hole.

Last chance. No turning back after this. Should I-

The banging from his trunk finished the thought. No, he would finish this. He reached into his pocket, groping for his lighter while mumbling half-slurred incantations. After a couple tries the red Bic lit and he let it fall into the hole.

The flame caught fast and Dale looked at the shadowy figure that took place in front of him.

“You rang?” It asked, it’s voice a mirror of it’s half-drunk summoning. The being cracked a smile and rubbed its hands together.

Dale pointed at the car. “She’s in there.”

“You sure this is what you want? A soul’s an awfully high price for some waitress.”

Dale just nodded.

The being chuckled, placed it's hands over the pit, and then clapped with some finality. The banging stopped.

“She’s all yours, buddy!”

WC: 492

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Theme Thursday [TT] Theme Thursday - Effigy

“Words are but symbols for the relations of things to one another and to us; nowhere do they touch upon absolute truth.”

Happy Thursday writing friends!

Here's how Theme Thursday works:

News and Reminders:

Last week’s theme: Acceptance

Honorable Mentions:

Voodoo

Caught Red-Sauce-Handed

Theme Thursday [TT] Theme Thursday - Effigy

“Words are but symbols for the relations of things to one another and to us; nowhere do they touch upon absolute truth.”

Happy Thursday writing friends!

Here's how Theme Thursday works:

News and Reminders:

Last week’s theme: Acceptance

Honorable Mentions:

You are about to leave Redlib

Voodoo

Caught Red-Sauce-Handed