Loksfjoer

Microfiction and poetry contest #1 - Prompt and discussion

We're up to 4 entries.

The Rorie League, a Pokémon Trainer RP (always open for more players)

Welcome to the RP @Emera Lore. You may post your character in the character tab and begin roleplaying on the Rorie Islands :)

Paranormal Activities [SporkoBug and Calle]

Stuart had his back at Jase as he undressed, while he would be seeing his body later he would allow the agent some privacy while undressing. He wrote some things on his laptop and when Jase was done he turned around and started his physical examination, writing down what he saw and making some sketches and the mandatory photographs for the file.
"Thank you," he said at the end. "You may get dressed again, but you don't need to conform to the dress code of our agency if something hinders you. We don't require people with wings to wear something that would trap their wings either."

---

Ethan stared at Gaia. "Pain?" he repeated. That made sense, why would she suddenly act like that for no reason?
He stepped back when she roared, but the omnious rumble that followed wasn't much better. "Gaia, snap out of it!"

"She won't," Morrison spat, "she is a monster."
If this had been outside, in the field, he would have fired a shot. The company policy didn't allow to shoot feral co-workers first; only when they would attack he was allowed to fire. Roaring and rumbling was not enough.
His finger was on the trigger. One wrong move he could see as an attack and he would put a new hole in her chest or skull.

Mike had safely withdrawn from the scene, now that Gaia had her attention on the two agents. He joined Steph and Benjamin.
"What happened?" Benjamin asked.
"I don't know. She suddenly got wild..." Mike said. "I..." he shook his head, lost for words. What had happened here? He wished he knew.

Microfiction and poetry contest #1 - Prompt and discussion

We already have the first entry.

RPGC: General Discussion

And the first Microfiction & Poetry contest is now live. We'll see how it goes :)

RPGC #27: To the sky! (Prompt and Discussion)

The voting period is over and the winning entry has been added to the RPGC Hall of Fame.

August 1st the next RPGC will begin. New month, new theme, new chances to get a place in the Hall of Fame!

For now there is a Microfiction and Poetry Contest to kill the time between the two RPGC's.

Microfiction and poetry contest #1 - Prompt and discussion

Microfiction and poetry contest #1

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What is the goal?

The Microfiction and Poetry Contest is more of a writing exercise than a contest, but there will be a voting round at the end. The aim for this writing contest doesn’t have to be a story with a beginning-middle-end like we do in the RPGC’s, although it may be and it’s a challenge in itself to tell a story in very few words.
This contest aims to be a lot broader. You are free to experiment with literary and poetic devices, explore different types of poetry or zoom in on a literary technique. Go with something you know, practice the things you feel could use some work, or try something new.
Feel like some purple prose? Make it as purple as you can. Always wanted to toy with alliterations? Now is your chance. Want to try a 6-word-story? It’s within the word count limits. Funny dialogue, sonnets, haiku’s, … The only limit is the word count. This is for short pieces in which you can practice or show off writing techniques or styles.
Another thing about this contest is equally important to know: this is more in line with free-writing than it is with planning and plotting: you only have one week to submit something. It doesn't have to be perfect, but I hope to see some unique and creative takes on the prompt, which you can read below in the contest rules.

Core rules:

• At all times follow the Fundamental Rules of the Guild and the Moderation Policy for Forum Contests.
• After reading the above this should be obvious: No plagiarism and respect copyright laws.
• Your submission must be written by you and specifically for this contest.
• This is a place for original fiction, no fanfiction allowed.
• No explicit sex, but you may fade to black.
• No excessive violence or gore.
• Don’t forget to subscribe to this thread. You will receive updates on the contest and on the number of entries, and reminders about the deadline here. I will not PM them.

Contest rules:

• The prompt for this contest is Butterfly.
• There will be a minimum word count of 5 and a maximum of 500
• Any literary or poetry style is permitted.
• Please PM @Calle the entries and give it as title MFP#1 - (Your Title).
• Your entry can be anonymous or carry your name. Let me know what you want in the PM. If you don't specify, your entry will be posted anonymously, but you may always claim your story during or at the end of the voting round.
• The deadline is July 23th, 9:00 GMT+1, which is 7:00 game time (both times are in a.m.)

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Entries so far: 4

RPGC: Trophy Case

Winner of RPGC #27: To the sky!

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The First and the Last by @Anza

Somewhere high above, there lies a shadow upon the wind. The bird feels it in the brittle hollows of her bones, in the faint chill that sweeps across her tail-feathers, and in the ancient, prickling certainty that something is watching with malign intent. She has not seen it, she cannot be sure of it, but still she knows that it is there.

Her small, dark eyes twitch at erratic intervals, sweeping the surrounding skies. A slight change in the sun’s light, or a faint blur of movement off in the distance; these might be the only warnings she receives before clawed death comes hurtling at her out of the blue. A predator’s eyes are better than hers, sharper. They’ll have seen her long before she ever sees them.

She flies onward, time inching forward moment by straining moment. A cold breeze cuts across her path, and she turns to greet it, riding the cool air and taking its speed for herself. Gravity is ever-present, its greedy pull faintly weighing on her even as she soars, but her wings are firm and wide, her flight muscles full of strength. The earth has long since lost its power over her.

So she does not fear the fall. She knows that true danger lies overhead, in the fleeting black W-shape now glimpsed at the corner of her vision. Her wings begin to beat with all their strength, her heart thundering with fear; she has less than a second to move before it is upon her.

***

Sometime long ago, she had crawled up onto the edge of her nest, staring down at the mossy expanse stretching far away below.

Gravity waited there, jaws spread wide and waiting. One wrong step, and its tongue would snap out and wrap around her, drag her from her perch and dash her fragile body against the hard, flat earth. The young bird’s wings ruffled nervously, her head shrinking back into its mane of downy feathers. This did not seem like a good place to be. Better to retreat, to squeeze herself back into the center of the nest with her siblings and wait for her parents to return with food.

Yet something, an inexorable force at the back of her mind, kept calling her here. That great open space, the air on every side, whispered in her head with a temptation as irresistible as hunger itself. Pushing against her wariness and self-preservation, she stepped a little closer to the edge, wings slowly unfolding and stretching out wide to either side of her. She flapped them, just a little. It was a good feeling.

Her mother alighted on a nearby branch and tilted her head to one side, cooing encouragement at her daughter’s progress.

And for just a moment, the young bird chose to look back, wondering if her parent had brought a meal to reward her bravery. Just a moment, but it was enough: her balance faltered, her feet lost their grip, and she tipped forwards off the nest and into the empty air.

Panic clenched her like a vise. Her wings fluttered desperately, churning up winds all around her and turning a gentle fall into a wild tumble, spinning her every which way—

To no avail. Gravity’s jaws snapped shut around her, and she crashed to the ground.

***

Somewhere high above, a shadow strikes in the space of an eyeblink. A monster, a thunderbolt, a black blur moving faster than she can see, open talons punching through the sky just inches away from her wingtip. She is sent flying, tumbling, cast aside by the wake of something much larger and faster than she.

The bird is no longer a novice, however. Her wings move with a deft and easy power now, overwhelming the windy currents around her and quickly reorienting into a stable flight.

She can see the shadow below her, already leveling out of its barely-missed dive and climbing fast in pursuit. A young grey falcon, sleek and swift and strong. It closes in with every passing breath, the long strokes of its wings seeming effortless in comparison with her own desperate flight.

She flies on nonetheless, her long adult feathers giving her a lift and velocity she could only have dreamed of in her youth. Her heart is a mad rhythm of fear, her muscles burning bright with the force of her exertions, and yet it’s still not enough, not even close. The space between them narrows, gleaming talons drawing ever nearer to their prize, and she has no weapon with which to defend herself, no hope left but for one final reckless maneuver.

She pulls her wings in tight against her body, and lets gravity snatch her away.

***

Sometime long ago, she had struggled upright, shrugging off specks of dirt and leaves to look out all around her. Somehow, in spite of everything, she was alive. A little bruised, a little dazed, but not hurt so badly that she couldn’t move around. Lifting her head, she beheld the world from a new perspective: the bark-laden pillars of creation now stretched upward rather than down, and the floor around her seemed to extend on and on into an unseen distance. She could walk as far as she wanted, she now realized, and never have to worry about falling again.

But walking had never been what enticed her so.

Her old nest hung far overhead, so tiny from here. On an overlooking branch, her mother chirped appreciatively down at her. She took a few steps, gathering courage, and then unfolded her wings once more.

A hop, a flutter, and a short glide that soon came to a sudden and ungainly halt. This time, however, there was barely any distance to fall, and gravity brought her down with a calm and gentle embrace. She tried again, flapping hard and fast without quite lifting off, testing the power and limits of her wings.

And then she leaped up off the ground, and did not come down.

It would only be a few seconds before she landed again, still weak and uncertain in her own ability. For that tiny sliver of time, however, the air belonged to her. She could still feel the earth’s pull, tugging away at her, but now it was no more than a simple constant, to be obeyed only at her own pleasure. She swam into the sky, up and up toward the glimpses of blue peeking through the canopy above, and understood then in her tiny brain that an infinity beyond all imagining lay open and waiting before her.

***

There is no room for error, no path she can take that will allow her to escape. The open sky closes around her, cold laws of physics binding and sealing her fate.

She dives straight down, plunging fast as the wind itself in a final moment of defiant grace. The sky is hers, the fall is hers, her wings and weight and streamlined feathers bending the air in perfect synchrony to carry her anywhere and everywhere in the world.

The shadow follows, stronger and faster and heavier. Its talons close around her like a cage, and with a quiet snap and crack she is reduced to a small and ugly thing, feathers sticking out at ungainly angles from a mass of broken flesh and bone. Her mind fades slowly into cold and darkness, her last thoughts of infinity ticking down to a simple, empty zero.

The falcon spreads its wings, levels out, and glides away into the open blue.

-end-

RPGC: Trophy Case

Winner of RPGC #26: All that glitters belongs to me

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The Dowry of Böðvildr by @Kassarock

I awake to the pain of your absence in my bed, that cold and empty space beside me that should be warm to the touch with you. Moonlight spills in from the open window, the sill is white with snowfall and bright beneath its silver rays. I hear the fluttering of wings and my heart surges with joy. But you do not come, just a nightjar searching for milk to suckle. It knows... I breath to myself before it takes flight and disappears into the night once more.

My hand reaches down beneath the coverlet and traces the curve of my belly, the swelling sign of the love that we had once shared. I feel our child press against my skin, reaching out to me, reaching out to grasp the golden ring that you had set upon my finger. I know he shall be strong and quick and clever like you, though thinking of who he shall be makes me weep, for I also know my father shall take him away from me even after I have already lost you.

I am discarded by him. I am discarded by you. My sorrow is only eclipsed by my hatred.

My consciousness climbs out from the languid pit of despair I have wallowed in since you tore our world apart. Why should I linger here after all that has been done to me? Why should I accept the fate laid out to me? I am the heir of Níðuðr the cruel and I shall not be subject to another man. I make my decision, it shall be tonight. Tonight I shall claim the dowry my father has laid out for my husband to be.

I rise from the bed and stretch the last of my sleep away. I do not pick up the mourning rags hanging from the back of the chair by dressing table. Like a sleepwalker still in a dream I walk naked to the door and pull it open. Dark tresses sway against my milk white body, I feel our child kick inside of me, he already knows that I am about to do.

The hallway outside is dark and empty. My father's guests and servants all sleep. His guards keep their wary watches outside to study the sky with fear, watching for you, they will not see me stir from my bed. Silently I pace the shadowed stone halls, searching for the place where my father stores the treasure you made him. It is hidden in the farthest reaches of his palace, well away from the rest of his gold, for he cannot bear to look upon and my mother could not bear to part from them. I know the way already. I go there to look upon the things you made. Sometimes I go there to speak my brothers.

The stone floor is like ice and my bare feet grow chilled against it, but I do not stop. Through the half closed doors I hear the snores of the suitors come to claim me as their damaged prize. I let them sleep on, blissfully unaware of me, the ghost that stalks King Níðuðr's halls tonight. It gets colder and colder as I leave the last of the warm hearths behind until I finally stand before it, the mean stone cell where my brothers sleep amongst gold.

The door is not locked, all except my suitors know the secret of the treasure, and who would dare steal treasure with secrets such as these? No man would want such cursed things in his home. But I am no man, and they are my kin. They lie there, my brothers, in a chest of oak and iron. I kneel before them and lift the lid, feeling our child stir once more as my thighs press against my abdomen. I reach into the chest and draw them out one by one, my brothers and all the precious things that you made for us, made for me.

I pick up your goblets first. Silver set wide shallow bowls I had once seen my father and mother drink wine as red as blood from. Neither was regular or perfect in their design, but instead their contours followed a natural, almost organic, flow. Their stands were splays of silver struts that grasped around the cup, you had them bound together with silver wire, before having spread open again to form feet. Metacarpals and metatarsals cradling craniums, all used in your savage and beautiful craft. My brothers bones made beautiful.

Next I take out your necklace. I stare at them as they stare back at me. Golden chains linking four sapphire blue globes. Your art and magic turning my brothers' eyes to crystal stone. My mother had wept when you had told her what she had been wearing. I do not weep now as I take your gift and drip their sightless, tear-less, eyes around my pale neck.

Then there is brooch that you made for me. I am silent while I consider it, conglomeration of gilded ivory plucked from the mouths of princes. These teeth would never play with cheek and jaw and tongue to form tender loving words ever again. They would hold their silence forevermore - I do not mind, even silent they are my family still. I go to pin the brooch to my clothes before I realise I wear none. I drive the pin through the flesh of my breast instead and let my blood tickle down onto the other relics I have gathered against my skin.

He reaches out for them. Your son reaches out for them.

My brothers. My dowry.

His uncles. His inheritance.

But there is one last thing at the bottom of the chest. One last treasure you had created for us. The magic golden sword you had used as your lure to draw my brothers to your smithy on your lonely prison isle where you had suffered so long, tendons cut and bound to earth. I draw the sword from its sheath, feel the weight in my hand, touch one edge of its shining blade to a finger and watch as the blood wells up. This is your twisted Weregild. Blood for gold and gold for blood, shed in its own creation.

I shall make one more visit tonight.

I gather them up, the remnants of my family that you left me. The goblets I cradled against my side, the necklace I draped around my throat, the broach that pierced my breast still, and the sword, the sword I clutch in my fist. I take your final gift with me under my skin, hidden inside my womb.

Back out through the door, I retrace my steps in the pre-dawn dark. I know the door I seek now. My father's door, Níðuðr's door. I know that this will be your final revenge upon him, it shall completes your ruin of our family, but I do not care - I will not let him take my brothers and my son away from me.

Dripping in your gaudy treasures I push open the door his chamber and approach his sleeping form. I raise the sword above my head and bring it down into his belly. The bed fills with his blood. I have killed my King, killed my father. I crawl into the bed and lie next to him among the butchered and brutalised remains of our kin. This is the craft that you and I have worked together. This and the son I carry within me. Viðga I shall call him.

When I finally sleep again, I dream that you are there with me. You have finally come, your wings of beaten bronze holding you aloft at the tower window, your eyes like fire gazing into my soul. Mighty smith, maker and breaker of all things. I call out your name:

"Völundr!"

And then I awake.

RPGC#27 - To the sky! (Voting and Feedback)

With 3/5 votes The First and the Last is the winning entry.

Congratulations!