Thread: 09/13/2010 - LM - Discovering a Portal to...

09/13/2010 - LM – Discovering a Portal to…

Hello everyone.

Roll up, Roll up, It’s time again, for the almighty LM.

This month we have for you, the prompt (courtesy of Kat):

Discovering a Portal to…

In 650 words or less, (not including the title), use this prompt to create a story.


Submissions may be posted in this thread right here, or in the thread provided in the Writer's Workshop.

If you wish to protect your first rights (in case you want to someday submit the work to a magazine or whatnot). Please remember to provide the judges with a link to your story in this thread. You can get your link by clicking on the number in the top right-hand corner of your post, then copying the link from the address bar.

So just to be clear. If you want to enter the LM Challenge and protect your first rights, what you do is post your entry in the workshop thread (in full—title, text and all), then click on the number in the top right-hand corner of your post, copy the link from the address bar and post that link in this challenge thread.


Everyone is welcome to participate.
Judges are welcome to participate but their entries cannot receive a score.
(Though if judges do participate, it’d be nice for the other judges to read and comment on the story)

Submissions will be accepted until midnight my time (+18, I think), Monday September 27th.
(To be safe, anyone not in Australia should aim to get it in by late on Sunday the 26th, or early Monday the 27th).

Get Scribblin’.

Your judges for this round are:
alanmt
Kat
Leyline
Like a Fox (…me)



No comments please - Only competition entries to be posted in this thread.

"I'm telling you, it's here somewhere!!" whispered Rusty a little too loudly.

"Shhhh!"

"Look, we've searched seventeen of them this weekend and we've found nothing! I say we call it quits," said Joe, folding up a tattered piece of cloth with markings on it.

"One more. Just one more. We're so close!"

"Give it a rest, Rusty," said the last of the three, Edward, squeezing his way to the door.

***

The three friends' journey began on a drizzly autumn day in McArthur's Boarding School. With outdoor activities cancelled due to the rain, the only place left for them to hang out was the school library. Nothing ever happened in the library. It was full of old boring books that were heavy enough to keep the heavy doors from closing. The titles were as dull as the words written in them.

But one particular book caught Joe's eye that day. It was a big dusty green book with pages so yellow they were almost orange. The title on the cover was almost completely faded. Luckily it was embossed rather deep into the cover and though the gold font had all but disappeared, the title could still be clearly read. It was a stretched octagon with block letters reading 'NINTENDO'.

"You have got to be kidding me. Guys, check this out!" said Joe, pulling the book off the shelf.

"Wow, I didn't know they had stuff like this in here!" said Edward excitedly.

Joe dusted off the cover and turned to the first page.

'Here is the account of Shigeru Miyamoto and the discovery of the Realm of Nintendo.'

The three were completely dumbstruck as they read through the first paragraph. It described the worlds in complete detail. Worlds that only existed in video games. It had sketches of what the worlds looked like and all the creatures that lived in them. It looked exactly like the video games from the company with the same name.

"Is this some kind of joke?" said Joe in disbelief.

Rusty turned back to the cover page and found a date written in the top corner. 1964.

"That's twenty years before Super Mario came out!" exclaimed Edward.

"I don't believe this! You're telling me Nintendo is based on a real world?"

Joe started flipping through the pages and a crumpled piece of cloth dropped out of the pages. It was old and tattered but the ink on it was still clear.

The Portal to the Mushroom Kingdom.

"Guys! It's right here in this school! Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" said Rusty, his eyes fixed on the piece of cloth.

And so they began the search.

***

The three of them were huddled inside a cubicle in the washroom. The stalls in the school were small for one person. It was a miracle that all three of them managed to squeeze in. Thankfully the door opened outwards.

"Let's do this last one. Then we'll call it quits," said Rusty, seeing the glare on Joe's face. "It's not my fault the darn map was so vague and our school is so big!"

"Fine, one more."

They squeezed out of the cubicle and entered the next one on the right.

"Here goes nothing," said Joe, flushing down a chunk of portobello he stole from the kitchen earlier. "Nothing. We're out of luck."

"Wait! Look!"

Suddenly a giant red plant shot up out of the bowl. It's huge jaw chomped wildly in the air before sinking back into the bowl with a splash.

"Oh, my god! We've found it!" said Rusty.

"What now?" asked Joe.

"We go in! Come on! We've found the real Mushroom Kingdom! This is unbelievable!"

"Ewwww! I'm not jumping into a toilet!"

One Minute Gambit (561)

60…

The numbers glared at me like my father always did when he came home drunk. That childhood memory was something I never cherished, but in times like this? My father’s Death Gaze was the only fitting metaphor.

56… 55…

My hands were shaking like hell. I never liked my job, but with a six-digit salary plus bonuses, who could complain? I could do this over and over, if the price is right.

I felt a bead of sweat trickle across my left cheek. Time was slowly counting down, and if I don’t finish this in time, who knows what’ll happen.

47… 46…

“Fourteen seconds already?” I thought to myself. I shook my head, wishing I could somehow conjure a portal that would make each second last for a minute. That way, I could think clearly.

I moved my right hand forward, pondering whether I’ll do the move or not. After a long pause, I sighed and withdrew my hand back. I squinted my eyes and looked at the board again. Should I do it?

36… 35…

I shook my head again as I saw the digital timer. “Why must these things have a limit? How can one concentrate with an enemy like…” I closed my eyes and tried to clear my thoughts. I need to get my head back into this. Blaming the time won’t do me much good.

I decided that I should take the risk. I can do the calculations over and over, but if I don’t make my move now, I’m as good as lost.

28… 27…

I moved my right hand forward again, eager this time to make the move. I was about to do it when I remembered my teacher’s advice back when I was still in the academy. “Always be certain of your moves, or it could be your last.”

Those words stung me sharply.

I withdrew my hand, again, and sighed. I looked at the board again, and tried to see all the possible angles. A lot were at stake here, and if I make a misjudged move, it might be the end of it all.

19… 18…

I felt my heart was about to explode! I can’t take this anymore! I’m nearing fifty, damn it. If I burst a blood vessel right now, I don’t care if the payout is double than what it is now, I’d rather quit!

… but then, I’d burst more than a blood vessel here should I make the wrong turn.

10… 9…

I have no choice. I must do it. Should I fail, they will not blame me for my inaction.

I moved my right hand forward, for the third time now, and held on the piece that could make or break this situation. I held the piece, raised it a bit surveyed the board one last time, hoping I didn’t miss anything.

3… 2…

I placed the piece down. It fell with a soft thud. I then hurriedly pressed the “stop” button that was located at the top of the digital clock.

I looked at the large monitor to my right, where I saw my move register on it: “8. qe5” I then turned at the man across the table and I said to him, “Check.”

At that moment, the digital clock on his right side flickered to life. The numbers on it read: 60…

JUDGE ENTRY, NOT FOR COMPETITION
Contains some profanity and violence.

Catflap
(643 WORDS)

Here, kitty kitty. There, kitty kitty. Alive or dead, kitty kitty? You decide.



There's this cat, but you never see it when anyone else is around, when anyone else is looking. It was here the day I moved in and I fed it. After that, it came around regularly. Except, like I said, when other people were looking. I just figured, at first, that it was shy.

But now, after all this, I'm starting to wonder.




There's blood all over the place. It's disgusting. It's starting to stink. I guess it's rotting. I wish I could move. I wish I could feel something. I'm a little thirsty. Not hungry.. It stinks too bad for me to get hungry. But a glass of cold water would be heaven right now. Hell, even a glass of warm water.

It's boring. It stinks. All I can see is one of Tonya’s feet and the cat flap, which was also here when I moved in. Magical door for a kitty, a secret portal for kitty to discover.

And I'm keeping my eye on the damn cat flap, you can be sure of that.




I shot Tonya because she broke my heart. No point in lying about this. I don’t regret shooting her or feel sorry for her. She was a whore, a liar and she got what she deserved. Three years I wasted on her. Three years of her mood swings and dieting and anti-depressants. Then, miracle of miracles, things started getting better. The drugs seemed to be working. She lost seventy pounds, joined the gym, and even bought a bikini. She was looking great and -- more importantly -- she was feeling great.

Like an idiot, I assumed she was happy because the pills were working. That her mood was vibrant because she’d lost the fat she’d been fighting against her entire life.

I was wrong. She was happy because she was screwing every guy who smiled at her, including some of my classmates, her co-workers, her 63 year old boss, and even that nasty dude down the street -- the one with the atrocious acne who thinks he can play the guitar.

She screwed around on me for over a year. A year of assholes talking about me behind my back, laughing at how stupid, how blind, I was.

Until the cat told me the truth.




There’s a famous thought experiment about a cat in a box, and the question of whether it’s alive or dead only being truly resolved when it is finally observed.

I guess it’s only fair that sometimes the cat gets to be the observer.



You know what Tonya’s last words were? After I told her what the cat had said, the stupid bitch had screamed “You don’t even have a cat!"

When I shot her, her head actually exploded. Then she kind of slumped forward, like a house of cards toppling. She slumped into me, and her weight (haha) caught the shotgun and pushed it against my chest as she fell. I remember a loud noise. I remember a bright flash. I remember a sudden pain that was over quickly.

And I’ve been lying here, unable to move, ever since. Three days, I think. God, that blood stinks. Does that mean I’m alive? Can ghosts be nauseated? I can see Tonya’s right foot poking up at a crazy angle, still clad in that tacky high heel fuck-me shoe. I hate that shoe, man.

Alive or dead? Can’t be sure till I’m observed. And only one creature is due to step through and take a good long look. Only one creature can deliver me from this purgatory of swirling possibility, this dead calm in the either/or.



Where the hell is that cat?

I've always been squeamish about poop so Sara had to bend to pick it up while I walked on with the new dog. Had our roles been reversed the car would have hit me first, and perhaps shielded Sara's body against the impact as her body shielded mine, but we were where we were and now she's dead and I am not. I could have said, "No, I'll do it this time", but I didn't, because I've always been squeamish about poop, and now she's dead.

The doctors said Sara died on impact and I know this to be true because as I was lying in the grass I looked up to see that the Subway logo on the door beside me had been replaced by a frozen image of her face, hands covering her eyes as though in great sorrow, lips curled in a secret sneer as though to say: "This should have been yours, and I'll keep it for you."

I could have reached up and cracked that door open - I had the strength - but ever the coward, I did not.

During the first weeks I saw that door often along the hospital's halls. First I told myself I was too weak to open it, and not ready - then as the pain ebbed and my strength returned I saw Sara's face less and less, and more doors were just doors, and eventually life ground her up out of the soil of my mind.

And I had forgotten her - forgotten her promise - until last week, when the doctors said that the cancer is spreading, that they're sorry, that it's an unusual case, and had it been caught sooner, perhaps just a little sooner, and oh, those doctors, they seem quite as sad as I am about the whole thing. They've given me six months, but I know this to be wrong - on the way out of the office I saw that dread door where there should have been a bathroom, and I had to climb into my driver's seat from the passenger side, because the driver's door was weeping Sara's tears.

And now she has the doors of my own home, and of my son's, who wouldn't let me in anyway, and if I look through the keyhole I can see the other side, where her face is smiling and her hands are stretched out instead of covering her face. She forgives me there - but she has not forgotten me here - and rather than look into that sneering face, ever the coward, I will sit here in the park, far from any door, until that lonesome portal opens itself and comes to find me.

Dearstread Forthringay, otherwise known as King’s knight, was working late again. Not only was there all the university work, the writing forum had had an influx of new members. Things would settle down after a bit, they always did, and they would find themselves with a few regular new members who were decent people and worth having around. Unfortunately it meant putting up with all the dross; the bird-brains, the weirdos, the inadequates, who always turned up at the same time. He had spent a frustrating hour moving threads and writing messages to people. He knew in his heart of hearts they would take little notice. They would carry on their own sweet way, ignoring the rules, under the impression they had some sort of God given right to do and say exactly what they wanted until he had to ban them.
He needed a break, besides the room was getting pretty warm, his wife was firing up the kiln she used for making stained glass Christmas tree decorations. He looked down at the multi gang lead he had coming out of the plug: computer, phone, printer, i pod, he had labelled the backs of the plugs so he would not have to untangle the leads to find the right one every time. He added fan, guitar and wow-wow pedal to the row and leant back, guitar in lap, to practice and relax.


He was never sure how it happened, all those wires with different voltages, different currents, all wound round and round each other, the wow-wow pedal had something to do with it. It was not dramatic. A second desk and a second computer, looking almost exactly like the first, simply appeared next to the one he was sitting facing. He couldn’t resist it, he went to “Bookmarks” and logged on to the forum. It was, like the computer, almost exactly the same. When he thought about it afterwards he couldn’t think of any differences, but he was sure there were.


It was when he saw that they both appeared to be on the same home network that he had the idea, he began transferring accounts from the normal home computer to the new apparition. He could go to the profile page and by using the thread tools use “Move to” to shift it to a page he held open on the second computer.
“I will have all these troublemakers in one place where I can keep an eye on them” he was thinking as he moved the last one. That was when the kiln thermostat clicked back in and blew the main fuse. The fuse was easily fixed, but the doppelganger computer had vanished, along with all those profile pages and accounts. For a while he expected people to log back in, questioning what had happened, no-one did. He was never sure, had he moved the people to a parallel existence as well as their accounts?

The Moving Things Are Clouds

Another day over, and here I am—laying in bed, glad to finally stop trying for a while and let my mind drift away. I stretch under the blankets. The sheets are cool and refreshing on my skin. I call up images of the day’s events and random fantasies. My reveries deepen, and I begin to wonder whether I’m awake or dreaming. But no—the furnace still hums in the distance—raindrops still tinkle on the metal roof. The world is still there, but soon I will be asleep, and—

I hear a loud sound under my bed.

My eyes open sharp, and I am wide awake. I listen tensely for several seconds for the sound to repeat itself. It does not.

Could I really have heard what I think I just heard? The sound was very distinct in every way, there is no doubt about what the sound was. Quite plainly I heard the roar of a dragon.

So unlike the roar of earthly creatures, it must have been a dragon. Still I tremble at the memory. It wasn’t quiet, either; it practically shook the bedposts. I’d be surprised if the neighbors didn’t hear it.

So I lay there, still and afraid. Dumbstruck. I decide that a little peek couldn’t hurt.

I inch my head over the side. It is pitch black underneath, and I see nothing, except. . . I hear something. Not a sound like a roar, but. . . a whistling. An airy windy sound of fast-moving currents. I hop out of bed, toss on a tee and shorts in the dark, and go prone on the floor. I edge myself under. The whistling loudens, but I see no source. What is it? I snake forward.

Only my shins poke out now. It’s a tight fit. I swivel my head left and right searching for what makes the whistling sound that is now very loud.

I see a faint white glow appear. It is coming from a bright speck on the floor in front of my face. I peer closer. It looks like things are moving inside. I put my eye right up to it. The moving things are clouds.

The white hole widens and the floor melts away. I try to back up but the floor is already gone and I am falling. Falling in the sky! Clouds surround me, and it is no longer night, but a bright sunny day! I plummet through puffs of moisture. Air whips my flesh and clothes. It is exhilarating! Nearby, I see a great flying shape. It’s a dragon! It breathes fire and flaps large scaly wings. It disappears.

The clouds beneath me part and a green landscape of verdant fields and proud mountains unfurls. Rushing up to meet me I see a great city, majestic with towering castles and palaces. I fall towards the largest palace of the lot, and part of me on some level realizes that at this speed, if I hit that palace. . . I will die. I’m going to die!

A dome of glass panes surmounts the palace. I crash through the glass and for an instant take in a scene of nobleman, gentry, musicians, political climbers, and concubines, all dressed in the most outrageous of fashions. A fat man in a joker outfit I land on. He splatters all over the place, but I am fine and ricochet through the air. I land on the throne.

A tall man with a beard and staff looks at me. “You are the king!” he says.
“I am the king?” I say.
“You are the king!” he says. “As was foretold! The king who will fall from the sky!”
“You know what?” I say. “I am the king.”

And so I was. For the next three years I lead my people on a successful campaign over the seven realms of Shar-Torok, riding my mighty dragon, Klixor.

The Journey

Strangely, I didn’t feel any emotion as I looked at the prone figure with his legs concealed beneath the bus. I seemed to be detached by the whole scene. The horror expressed in the taught muscle contractions that had set on his face, reminded me of the time I visited Pompeii although this was more real, more human. I knew that I should help in some way but felt that I would be interfering in something that was not my concern or business. So I didn’t. A woman I recognised but could not place, came and put her coat under his head to cushion it from the pavement. Other figures gathered around in a semi-circle with their hands momentarily pressed against their mouths, preventing it from exposing shock but their eyes where aghast and showed their true feelings. Some turned their backs and retched. I heard someone say “Don’t move him you could do more damage.” The woman who placed her jacket under his head just looked up with tears jumping off her shaking cheeks. Suddenly, the crowd move aside and two paramedics carrying small holdalls moved in. One put her arms on the shoulders of the crouched woman and eased her aside. “We’ll look after him now love.” She said. The other lifted the eyelids of the injured man and then passed a look to his colleague while placing his hand on his throat. His head moved from side to side sorrowfully and said “It’s alright mate, an ambulance is on its way.”

I wanted to move away unnoticed but felt obliged to stay. Something held me, compelling me to watch the unfolding scene. I had to see this through.

The prone man opened his eyes and stared directly in to mine. We connected instantly. A brief grin passed across his face which filled me with warmth that spread through me like a wave of hope. The grin quickly faded but the warmth grew inside me and I passed it back to him as his eyes looked at me smiling then slowly they closed.

The cloud covered sky parted with a bright rapier crack of light that beamed happiness downward enveloping me. The surrounding world slowly began to dissolve in a grey haze until I was the only one standing next to the man. In the pool of light I felt at ease, contented with the change of scenery. The man rose up on to his elbows, opened his smiling eyes again, looked at me and said “It’s time. He’s waiting.”

The corridor of light retracted and took me with it, pulling me skywards in an effortless way. Passing through the clouds everything became clear, serene. The journey lasted a mere minute but took a lifetime filled with memories.

I arrived at a golden gate flanked by two angels. The gates opened and Saint Peter’s hand gestured me in.

Judge Entry

Doorway


Each breath was painful, drawing in more sand than air. Through the sifting veil I spied an abandoned building. Darting past the unhinged door into the darkness I was finally able to draw a clear breath. I removed my veil and shook out my hair, the sand raining onto the mosaic floor. My eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, picking out landmarks.

Sand had drifted into the corners, collected among the feet of various tables and chairs. The room was pale, shades of graying reds and blues. Empty footsteps marked their way across the sand dusted floor, into the only other doorway in the room. I followed them into the gloom.

Opening the door the smell of lush earth, verdant growth, and water leached into the room, a hidden oasis. I could not see through the blackness but the smell alone drew me forward. I was parched, longing for water. Shuffling like a blind man I felt my way through the shadow. With each step I sniffed and drew in the cool humidity, a soothing balm to my sand scoured lungs.

My foot hit solid and I reached my hands out tentatively touching, feeling along the cold stone until I encountered rougher wood and a smooth latch. Pulling it open the light blinded me for a moment.

The temperature dropped enough to draw goose bumps along my skin. Although bright compared to the inky darkness I had been in- it was still a half-light world. Shadows clung to foreign corners and nightmares hid behind each tree.

Fear clung to my skin but excitement raced my heart. I stepped forward onto the damp loam leaving behind the dry hot sand of my home. The door slammed shut behind me blending into the rock face of the mountain I had just exited. Panicking I dashed towards the space, feeling along the slimy edges for some slip, handle or entrance. But all that greeted me was mucky stone.

Everything was green, even the rocks were covered in a green film. Strange shrill trilling noises echoed throughout the forest, bouncing from tree to tree. I huddled against the stone, my back quickly becoming damp through my thin silk dress. Curling up I hugged my knees to my chest, settling my veil over my hair. I used the corner to dry my tears. I was lost and alone in a cold unknown world. Small sobs broke my chattering lips.

A cough in front of me drew my attention and I squished back further into the rock, drawing my veil over my face. Words exited his mouth, a smooth lipless mouth, but I couldn’t understand. Shaking my head I inched back along the stone, searching for escape. He reached out a hand, slender nail free fingers, and smiled revealing a mouth full of flat teeth. Flat teeth, herbivore. I remembered from studying dinosaurs as a child. He wasn’t going to eat me.

I had no choice, was I just going to sit here and wait to die, freezing to death as my clothes became soaked. So I held out my hand. His fingers felt so smooth, like glass. He lifted me gently, placing his cloak around my shoulders. My hand in his, I followed him into the woods, into his world.

Speedy and Pyg

1.
Speedy drifted west on Eighth Street, past the Food for Thought bookstore and the Literary Deli. He stopped in front of Rooftop Gardeners' Supply and studied a poster about city gardening. 'Weed it and Reap!' proclaimed bold yellow letters on a leafy-green background. The poster was decorated with orange and red splotches which Speedy took to be a New York artist's idea of how carrots and tomatoes look in the field. .

'Hah,' he said out loud.

'what?' said a voice behind him.

'Them ain't no kind of carrots or tomatoes I've seen, and I growed up on a farm.'

'And your speach tells me you had your elocution lessons from the back end of a mule.'

It was a girly kind of a voice, but Speedy had hung out in the Village long enough to know not to trust first impressions. He turned slowly and looked her up and down, for it was a her, and a very impressive her at that.

'So I don't talk New York fancy,' he said.

'You don't even talk New York subway. Let me guess. Mississippi.'

'Yeah.'

'Me too. Call me Pyg. Not p-i-g pig. P-y-g Pyg.'

If you say so. I'm Speedy. That ain't my real name, just what folks call me.'

'Pyg is short for Pygmalion. That's what my friends call me.'

'You have strange friends.'

'They're actors.'

'That explains it.'

'So you made the connection.'

He didn't want to explain the connection he'd made; how she reminded him of the of the girl he'd known at home when he was a kid and what happened the Summer of the big tent revival when everybody got saved and he and the girl slipped out of the tent, out of sight of the adults who sang so loudly they never heard the hallelujahs in the bushes.

'I reckon,' he said.

'You never,' she said.

'If it's your name, that's all the connection I need. You're the best I've seen since I came to New York.'

She wore blue jeans and a white t-shirt with splotches of green and red paint. The penny dropped.

'You're the artist. You painted the poster.'

She laughed. 'Artist, no. Painted the poster, yes. I came to New York to be an actress. That's why I've learned to talk "New York fancy". That's why my actor friends call me Pygmalion.'

'I don't get it,' he said.

'You know. The play. Didn't they teach you in high school about Gerorge Bernard Shaw's play, "Pygmalion?"'

'I never got to high school,' he said. 'I wanted to but I had to help papa with the farm. Then papa died, the bank took the farm, I hit the road, and here I am, a 23-year-old professional bum with ten years experience.'

'The play's about a poor girl who's taught to speak very proper English and is accepted as a lady by the uptown crowd. It's all in the way you talk. That's the door.'

'Door?'

'The big, wide, fancy door that gets you in where you want to be,' she said. 'You want lunch?'

He just stood and stared.

'That was an offer for lunch. Beer and pizza. Nothing else.'

'I know. But it sorta hit me out of the blue, you know.'

2.
'Pyg,' he said. 'You remember when we met, all those years ago?'

'Yeah. You were the dumbest sounding redneck I'd heard since I left Mississippi.'

'And you were the most beautiful woman in New York. You still are.'

'So why didn't I ever get more than bit parts in plays?'

'You opened the wrong door, the one marked "learn uptown talk". That wasn't the right one for you. I found the one marked "big bucks for genuine hillbilly movie actors". Once you discover the right door you can have anything you want. Now come here, my lady Pygmalion.'

Heaven Gate