Thread: LM 19/2/2011 - The Six Elements

Roll up, Roll up... Finally, for the next LM Challenge.

The prompt this round is:

The Six Elements

The idea is to take a thing, place, time, colour, random word and mood, and create a story that includes them all. Having gathered suggestions from several members over in the LM Coffee Shop I have chosen the following at random as your six necessary elements for your story:

Thing -- Apple
Place – Train station
Time – Utopian/Dystopian future
Colour -- Violet
Random word -- Effigy
Overall Mood -- Tense


The word limit is 650 words– Not including the title.
If you go over the limit your entry will not be counted.

There are two threads you can post your story in:

The LM Workshop Thread **
If you wish to protect your first rights (in case you want to someday submit the work to a magazine or whatnot).

Or the LM Challenge Thread (Right here)
If you’re not too concerned about your first rights.

** If you have elected to put your entry in the Workshop thread you must copy the link into the LM Challenge Thread.

Everyone is welcome to participate.
Judges are welcome to participate but their entries will not receive a score.

Submissions will be accepted until midnight my time (GMT+11), on Friday March 4th.

Your judges for this round are:

Hawke
Mike
ppsage
and jj1027


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

Orixa Rides

Violet day

Why is the world so perfect? I mean that it is too perfect, there is practically no crime and everyone has a job and …and… it's just too painful to say. I hate this world because it's too perfect. What I feel is something like; when you are ten years old and your mom comes in with a new and shiny glass vase. Whenever my mom does that I feel the itch to break it, and I do it without thinking about the consequences. That is what all of the people here felt, everyone with me that is.

All of us were gathered at the train station, it was always crowded with people. I held the apple in my hand very tightly, everyone knew what the apple meant. I could see people looking at me but how may of them were with me I had no idea, we had just gathered together from the Internet. The emperor these days was absolutely crazy if it had not been for the fact that everything was absolutely OK then people would have definitely died laughing at the things he did. Today was violet day, another one of his brain racked schemes. Everyone was wearing violet today even I had been forced by his mother to wear a violet shirt. It was just too sad to see people being so obedient; it was as though if no one had any individuality anymore.

As I raised the apple to my lips the whole world seemed to stop moving and it seemed that everyone was looking at me and only me. I took a big bite out of it the apple was very large and red, the juice seemed to fill my mouth and some of it dripped down my chin. Out of the corner of my eye I saw people all around me drop bags to the ground and pull out lots of things, fake arms and legs. I also took off my backpack and pulled out a head, not a real head but a head that looks like the emperor's head. Everyone came towards me one of them turned on a rock song on a mobile, everyone started to look around to see where the sound was coming from.

Everyone joined me where I was standing and started to put the effigy together in a hurry, the song pounding in our ears. There were about twenty of us, I hadn't expected so many to come. The effigy was ready to be burned now; I could see the train coming along, it too was colored violet.

“Who has the lighter?” I said because I couldn't see anyone taking out the lighter.

“Lighter?” one of them said. “I thought I was supposed to bring gasoline” he said as he pulled out the bottle.

“No one uses that stuff anymore!” I said as I pulled out my own lighter which I used for lighting cigarettes, grabbed the bottle from the idiot and poured the gasoline onto the effigy. I lighted the effigy,the flame reaching for the effigy and grasping it like a beast about to devour a boy whole. Threw the effigy in front of the moving train and then everyone scrammed from the place.

None of us knew what was going to happen next, but we just wanted to do what we wanted to do. I jumped off a railing, landed in the street and signaled a taxi to stop. A taxi stopped and I entered it with no doubt in my mind that this is my calling in life.

Waiting for the Train

Little Miss Candyflip
(645 words)

by George Potter

Step in, step in: it's unmistakable. A smell, a feel, a copper taste, an unearthly cascade of violet brilliance; a parody of daylight, sunshine bruised by failed romance, abused and left here crying amongst the party people.

This used to be a train station, but trains don't run anymore. The nation can't spare the metal, brothers and sisters. All God's good honest metal is needed for tanks and planes and guns and bombs, to keep the enemies of the party people at bay. To fight them there (wherever there might be) so we don't have to fight them here (whoever we might be).

Are you still here?

Of course you are. And so am I. Never mind the eternal whys -- there's only one reason, one excuse, one justification that finds us here, smashed together like a fleshy sea. We're here for the music, and the mood, and the party.

And for her. And here she comes.

Watch and learn: you see the sea part, the flesh rend so bloodlessly to let her pass? It knows she's special, this sea of Us, knows she's Little Miss Candyflip, out of her skull on sacred synthetics, wearing a blown mind like a halo, pupils huge and a smile to kill for. The sea parts but only just, it holds tight to her, tighter than the blinding white t-shirt, printed with a picture: an impossibly red apple. That apple is too pretty not to be poison.

Neither skinny nor fat, she's healthy in that tight shirt and that tiny little skirt. She's built to dance, like a lioness is built to run. Long black hair tied back and out of the way -- no makeup because she needs none. Her muscles are taut and defined, but flowing, elegant. And as she starts to move, a sigh flashes through the sea of Us, and...

...a vibe passes through, a current in that sea, and she's given room in the center of the wide floor. The music intensifies, becomes a throbbing complex of sound, an impossible rhythm for impossible motions. She's given space but all eyes are on her, windows to a thousand different reactions. There's lust there and pseudo-love, and jealousy and confusion. But above all, behind all others, in cortexi entranced and ecstatic, there's hunger.

Hunger to see her dance. Hunger to see her smile. Hunger to see the flames reach up and take her, and hear her laugh as she burns.

She's dancing, so beautiful and free, ignoring the crowd, poison apple flexing and moving with surreal grace. She could be alone for all those huge and gorgeous and incredibly stoned eyes reveal. They are blank and wide but filled with joy.

And that joy takes the crowd, forces their almost ambient movement into faster motion, building to frenzy. Still she taunts them, teases them to higher emotions, lower urges. They're dancing now, moving closer, eyes glued to the queen moving, a sacrifice begging for the fire as if it were her only escape.

Are you still here?

Am I?

Yes, and we're moving in, closer and closer, more furious and more desperate, we want her, we need her, but we will settle for a piece of her...

And like that she's gone, swallowed into the sea, reaching, ripping bodies like flames burning her as sure as an effigy. Another sacrifice to the will of the world, the hunger that isn't satisfied by the blood wake of tanks and guns and bombs. That needs a more personal brand of suffering, to a driving beat, to feel and taste something in the bruised daylight where we huddle come night fall. Huddle and beg for a fire, even if it's just to burn something beautiful to remind us that we are not burning yet.

And wonder if, even as the flames take her, the queen of May might smile.

Golden Ticket

Ciaran Shea twitched nervously in the dim hallway. Out on the platform a violet halo surrounded the neon sign advertising the Sheffield stop. He could hear the air slipping along the sides of the maglev as it rushed to the next station.

His hands were clammy. He rubbed his palms against his pant legs, but the moist night air and the heavy fog conspired against him. They were as damp after the effort as before.

Where was she? She’d told him to be here at exactly eight. The integrated heads-up lens in his left eye showed him that it was exactly seven fifty-seven. She said that she’d be right here: Under the Sheffield sign.

Two voices approached from the left. He hugged the wall and covered his ID transmitter with his right hand. No need telling everyone where he was. The voices grew louder. Footsteps accompanied them. Women, from the sound of it. High heels and voices to match. One of them screeched out in raucous laughter.

He felt the rush of air from the approaching maglev before he saw the headlight’s beam trying to pierce the fog. A hissing of airbrakes, and the white and silver creature slid to a stop at the platform’s edge.

The doors opened. No one got off. The two women got on. Doors sighed shut, and the air was slipping out of the way again. Fog swirled in and around itself, trying to seal the hole in the air the maglev left in its wake.

“Fifteen minutes,” said a voice behind him in the darkness.

He jumped at the sound. Spinning quickly to face the voice, he hissed, “Who’s there?”

She walked quietly from the shadow of a doorway. Damn, he hadn’t seen that. He had to take better care or he’d end up fried.

“Fifteen minutes is all we’ve got till the next transport. Let’s make this quick.”

“What do you want?” he demanded. “Who are you working for? How did you get my identification?”

“You don’t really want to waste time on small talk, do you?” She calmly pierced the skin of a small apple with perfect, ivory teeth. Chewing thoughtfully for a moment, she dropped her hand to her side and said, “I know who you’re looking for. You’re way off. You won’t find him in Burney. Or New Dayton.” She lifted her arm again, and took another small bite. He could hear the squeak of her teeth as they pressed against the skin of the fruit.

“And what do you get?” He stood up straight, now. His right hand remained over his left arm, covering his ID transmitter protectively. “I’ve got no money, no titles…what the hell do you want from me?”

She kept the apple close to her face. “Maybe you’ve got something else we want,” she said with the barest trace of a smile.

“And what might that be?” he inquired.

“Effigy,” she responded.

He flinched when she said the word.

“I see you’re familiar with the program,” she said, regarding her shoes. “You spent time with Colton in the Kensington Complex. Now he’s dead. And we both seem to be looking for the same man.”

She lazily closed the distance between them in two steps. Looking up into his craggy face, she said, “My people want Effigy. We’re prepared to do whatever is necessary to obtain it. Whatever,” she repeated. “Right now, you’re the closest thing we have to a solid lead.”

“We can make it worth your while,” she smiled. Putting her hand gently over his left arm, she said, “We can make that go away.”

He glanced at the ID transmitter below both of their hands.

“Ciaran Shea could just disappear. Poof!”

He decided quickly. “Where do I start looking?”

“Good boy,” she said, and turned away. After a few steps, she called over her shoulder, “We’ll be in touch.”






Thanks... This is fun!

Shadows of the Past
(646 words)


Amidst the honks of the cars jammed in heavy traffic, Johann was walking past the now-battered and ill-maintained effigy of Lord George Bentinck at Cavendish Square. The place had some place in Johann’s heart, for his great grandfather was said to have owned a residence in this historic place when the old man was still alive. This made Johann proud of his heritage, though there is not much to be proud of now, seeing as Cavendish square had been but an arid land after such a long time of neglect.

England had suffered harshly from the recession of 2011, so did numerous other countries across the world. Ten years after that ill turn, England, as did the whole world, failed to recover. With inflation rates soaring through the roof and money getting harder to acquire, Johann was happy he had been called for a job interview.

Unfortunately for him, he was running late.

He walked across Regent Street, now but a shadow of its rich past, then down the stairs of the Oxford Circus train station. After he paid for his ticket, he walked towards the platform and waited for the train.

Johann absorbed the things around the station. This used to be a very beautiful place. Now, the walls were tainted with graffiti, the paved floor tarnished with broken tiles and numerous pieces of litter, including apple cores and banana peels. The railway itself was rusted badly, and Johann wondered how the trains were still able to safely run through them.

As Johann took in these things, a short, burly man tugged him from behind. Johann turned around and saw a man with weird facial features, as if the face was lacerated. The man seemed to be a terrible chap, but Johann was careful not to be too judgmental. His clothes did not help erase this dark view. The man wore mismatched socks, one green and the other violet, and his overcoat appeared badly stained. “Can I help you, sir?” Johann said politely.

“Johann Lanyon, is it? Truly, you have the face of your great grandfather,” uttered the burly man.

Johann tilted his head slightly to the left, curious at this man’s words. “Pardon, sir?”

The man grinned darkly. Johann was starting to grow afraid of this man. The man merely stared at Johann icily, as if examining some spot in Johann’s face.

“I’m here to ask something of you,” the man muttered. “Do you wish to live forever?”

Johann did not answer.

“Do you not believe me? Well, see for yourself. I have lived a long time, and had been the closest of friends with your great grandfather.” The small, burly man reached for something inside his coat and took out a closed envelope. The envelope looked really worn and tattered, as if it had come from a century past.

“This is one of your great grandfather’s letters to me,” the man uttered, before he gave the envelope to Johann. Johann was about to reach for it when someone shouted from the ticket booth. “Johann!”

Johann looked toward that direction and saw his grandfather, running toward him. His eyes were tense and alarmed, as if something grim had occurred.

The burly man saw this and decided to run away. Before he did, he gave Johann the envelope. “Open it, and you’ll know I speak of the truth.”

Johann was watching the deformed man run away when his grandfather reached him, panting. “You should not talk to that man again, Johann. He is dangerous.”

“How so?” Johann asked.

“Just--”

“Yes, grandfather. I will not meet him again.”

And as the two walked back towards Regent Street, with Johann already having forgotten about his interview, Johann looked at the envelope. He opened it, only to find another enclosure. He was astounded by what was written. On the enclosure read: “To Henry Jekyll, From Hastie Lanyon.”

The Pipe

Dystopian Nightmare (650 words)

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1413993

Questions (643 words)

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1414105

The Last Train

(635 Words)

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1414410

Sartung

The moon shone harshly, coldly, in the violet twilight as the novices huddled at the train station, some in terror, others in mute resignation. Forbidden ballads told of ancient times when novices waited in joy- Joy!- for the train that would take them on their day of sartung to meet the wise and knowing Kang in his orchard of apple and pear.
Today novices shivered in the approaching dark, knowing half would not return, would lead their remaining lives as slaves. Those who passed the test, who solved the riddles the Masters posed to them from their horrid thrones, would return to this station tomorrow, to their waiting mothers, as breeding stock for future slaves. Mothers waited beneath the mocking effigy of the old god, each prostrated in desperate prayer for her children.
The train pulled in slowly, dark and smoking, smelling of death. Mothers lifted their heads from prayers, pulling each other back from rushing the train. Which would leave in mourning and which relieved?
Crimson-clad rail guards heaved open the doors to the cargo hold. Cold. Silence. Not a soul emerged from the car. Horrified mothers' screams rang through the night amid the guards' ugly laughter, telegraphing the message of a cruel new order.

My entry : Six Minutes

My entry: The Apple