This thread is solely for the writers that wish to compete and submit their story entries for the contest at hand.

Good luck to you all.

Originally Posted by Honest Abel Fox Trot Ballad Great. Another stain. Another smudge of lipstick. I gently rub my thumb over the dark, incriminating red lips on the left shoulder of my husband’s blue pinstriped shirt left in the hamper from days ago. I really ought to confront him about it, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s not that simple. The marriage is my security. Most nights he comes home, he seems so dazed. Completely out of it. Is what he does really that mesmerizing? I’ve been trying different ways to get the lipstick off his clothes. Regular washing just doesn’t work. I search online for a solution. People seem to agree that blotting the smudge with alcohol and carefully massaging in dishwashing detergent with a finger before washing should really work. I’m doing this right now. On the radio is some old American classic, “Guilty.” On the television is the news, France 2, the national station. Over the clarinet interlude, I hear the reporter discussing the recent flux in organized crime. Over the first muffled old verse, I hear the reporter discussing the political unrest in French Guiana. Maybe I’m right, maybe I’m wrong, Loving you, dear, like I do, If it’s a crime then I’m guilty, Guilty of loving you. I put the clothes in the wash. Now I’ve got nothing to do for the 50 minute cycle but watch television. That’s what you do when you haven’t got a job and your husband is out doing whatever he does to make money. This week is a business trip to Algeria. Your only option is to clean the apartment. Rearrange the sock drawer. Wash the lipstick stains out of your husband’s shirts and ties. You do all this with a television blaring in the background. At least you’re keeping up with news at the same time. You hear reporters talk about mafia crime lords, cocaine rings in lower Paris, mysterious strings of murders. You hear the newsman talk about a coup in French Guiana, parties like the Union for a Popular Movement and the Walwari Committee, names like Jose Dorcy and Christine Taubira-Delanon. What this has to do with you, you don’t know. There’s got to be something more to this, you start to think. But this political babble keeps a mind off of what’s really happening. It’s when I take the blue pinstriped shirt out of the wash that I realize none of the little household tips I read about removing lipstick ever work. This is the third attempt at a solution. The red smudge is fading more and more. Blurring, still spreading. I can no longer tell if it was a pair of lips in the first place. Really, I don’t remember. Hah, what if it wasn’t lipstick? I think about how my husband has been acting rather odd lately. Coming home in silent delirium, he completes his set of default actions. Rather normally, too normally, hanging his overcoat in the foyer, gingerly climbing the stairs, shuffling down the hall, leaving his shoes in the corner by the chair with his watch set on the bureau, tie over the back cushion, on and on. He’s like a zombie, acting but not thinking, ripping into the throat of a victim because of an undying urge, but the mind is elsewhere. I wish I knew where his mind was each night. Hah. What if it wasn’t lipstick? Breaking News on France 2. The leader of the newly established and instated Union for a Popular Movement party, Jose Dorcy, was assassinated while on a yacht from an unknown location on shore in French Guiana. Investigators suspect political motives. Well, that usually seems to be the case with politicians. Assassination. Mysterious string of murders. Political unrest. Flux in organized crime. Jose Dorcy is famous for his strong anti-cocaine exportation stance. A sound clip: “I will not tolerate the illegal drug trade to and from overseas.” The Walwari Party and its close ties to the Radical Left Party in France. All of these facts, just blurred in the background as the stain in the blue pinstriped shirt blurs with each wash. Hah. What if it wasn’t lipstick? What if my husband came home with blood on his shirt? I do a quick search for household tips on removing blood from fabric. Dab the stain with hydrogen peroxide. Let it sit for a minute, then dab with a towel soaked with cool water. Then wash. I’m doing this right now. I’ve got a 30 minute quick-wash cycle. My love, my marriage, even my sanity could be jeopardized depending on the outcome of this half hour. While the machine fills with water, I hear the reporter discussing the possible link between drug trafficking and the assassination. While the agitator agitates away, I hear a crackly but famous French classic. And when this half hour is over, if it is indeed blood and not lipstick, the stain will be gone. Si tu n'étais pas là Comment pourrais-je vivre Je ne connaîtrais pas Ce bonheur qui m'enivre And then I might have a bigger problem to deal with. It’s all coming slowly together in my head. And I don’t want it to. Say my husband comes home every night, almost always with a new bloodstain on his shirt. He’s gone the entire day, and when he comes home, he seems depressed. Unmotivated. Out of it. He is all too vague about his job. He votes liberally. He doesn’t like discussing the mafia. In fact he turns the television off when something is mentioned. The mafia, the blood, the politics. The business trips. Algeria, Lebanon before it. Switzerland, the United States, Japan, and the list keeps going. I’ve never gotten a souvenir. I’ve never even been invited. “They’re business trips. If you want a job with the company, I suppose I could pull some strings,” he says sarcastically. His coming home and going out are as mysterious as the motives behind the assassination of Jose Dorcy. “Besides, you’re expecting. Why start working now?” How convenient for him! I wouldn’t be able to do anything anymore. Keep the mother occupied at home with the child so the mob hits can continue. It’s all come together. He’s a hitman. It’s all making sense. The unsettled territory in south French Guyana, that’s where they produce the cocaine that shipped to the Parisian drug rings. That’s how the mafia wins their income, and throws bribes to the political left to keep their supporters in power, keep the exportation laws unchecked. That’s why my husband had to kill Jose Dorcy. That’s why I’ll never get a souvenir from Algeria. The laundry is almost done and I’m waiting anxiously for that buzzer to go off. Ah, there it is. I dig in. This is it. The moment of truth. The red smudge is still there. I toss the shirt back on the ironing board, and return to my computer. I need to find another tip on how to remove lipstick. Everybody chases rainbows, Looking for a bluebird blue, Most of us in time find rainbows, Funny, dear, what love can do. If I don’t get this lipstick out of his shirt, my husband is going to figure it out. He’ll know I’ve been wearing his shirts. I need to get my mistress’ lipstick out before he notices it tomorrow morning.

Justice

“Transient guests, are we?”
-Count Dracula, 10010 AD
He awoke when the barn door was beat in.

D had taken refugee in the musty barn when his request for lodgings at the local inn was “rudely denied”. Two armed guards had come at him but the expert swordsman had knocked them on their behinds with a well-placed smack of his sword’s hilt. Not unaccustomed to “roughing it” the vampire hunter used his keen senses to locate the abandoned building and bedded down on some hay.

The rest had lasted a less than fifty minutes when light from a hundred torches assaulted his beautiful eyes and those eyes were greeted with the sight of a like-number of peasants screaming their heads off with comments of ‘murderer’ and swinging grass scythes and rusted swords. He’d been in the town for less than an hour and already his presence had alerted and incited a mob.

Not unaccustomed to that either, D rose slowly, tipping his wide-brimmed hat up and lifting his sword, the crescent-shaped blade gleaming in the firelight. With one calm stare from the swordsman and hush like a graveyard fell over the crowd. A miasma only his kind could evoke enveloped them. Some shivered. Several whimpered. Every single one of them stood lifeless.

D said simply. “Go home.”

They crowd scattered, falling over each other in haste. A litany of weapons fell to the barn floor, sending up small clouds of dust. When the last of them had fled, D deserted the barn himself and headed down the market district. Something had aside from his presence had sparked the crowd and he could readily figure what. The cool breeze stirred his dark tresses and black cloak as he moved as a shadow, silent and deadly.

The crowd, after having recovered from his “spell”, would return and he would need to tend to this matter before they did.

A voice from his left hand spoke, the sound snide and mocking. “Every time you do this you know what happens. Just get the hell out of here.” A small cry of pain could be heard as D clenched his fist. Regardless of the truth of the words coming from the symbiote in his hand, D would venture on and continue his self-imposed duty. He knew no other life.

He sniffed. No mistaking it—blood. The swordsman approached an old house at the outskirts of town, sword held at ready. Paint chips fell to the stones and the fence creaked as D opened and passed through. Nothing but the wind and the rusted hinges could be heard to the normal ear but he heard the sound of a beating heart and the growls of a creature of the night.

Yes, he was right. It was as he feared.

Entering the dilapidated home, D’s steps in the living room made less sound than the moonlight shining in through a broken window. His blue pendant brightened. Yes, it was near. Very near. A shadow stirred to his left...

The afterimage of the swordsman’s leap and thrust would bedazzle any onlooker had there been any. But his blade bit naught but empty air. Again, D swung his sword in a silvery flash and again the shadow flittered away. Hearing footsteps he glanced up a staircase to see a young boy of six or seven running down them.

Before the swordsman could say anything the shadow swept up those same steps. Then the shadow rematerialized into the shape of a thirty-some odd woman of gleaming golden hair. The same hair as the boy that jumped into her arms. Mother and son. Only not so much mother if what he sensed was correct...

“Leave me and my son alone, you demon!” she cried, eyes glowing red. D knew what that meant. Had seen those same eyes a hundred times before....had worn them often enough himself.

“Go, you meanie!” the boy added. “Don’t hurt my mommy!”

D halted in mid-step, lips parted slightly. Considering his demeanor, the fact that he’d reacted at all was something of a rarity but the predicament he faced contributed to that. “That is not your mother. She’s changed. Come to me and I will protect you from here.”

“No!”

Slipping forward a single step, the swordsman stopped again as the woman shrieked. His eyes shot up to see her teeth elongate and narrow the distance to the boy’s throat. D had not a moment to lose. His sword was as one of those moonbeams as it cleanly sliced the woman’s head off. Not missing a beat, he caught the boy and dragged him down the stairs.

‘No....Mommy! You murdered my mommy!!”

“She’s not your mother anymore. She’s a vamp—“

The boy broke free of his grip and darted out of the home. D followed him into the street. It was then that his eyes caught sight of the same crowd as before. The moment they saw him they surrounded the swordsman, wielding a new assortment of ill-crafted weapons. If he so desired D could tear a path of destruction within seconds. Was there another way...?

Pointing at him, the boy screamed, “He killed my mommy!”

D let out a soft sigh. So Leftie was right. In a manner of speaking for a left hand.

“Is that so?!” a man in the crowd cried. “Cut down that half-breed murderer!”

The moment the first weapon drew near, D flew into action. It was as a horrible play where the ending is slow and gruesome. Those that could be spared, were. Those that couldn’t, perished swiftly and almost painlessly on his sword. The blood filled the ground from many a wound...none of which was D’s own. All the while the child cried.

Finally hacking a path open after only two deaths, D ran as the wind itself towards the town’s rear exit. He did not look back. He did not need to. The devastation he wrecked in a mere minute would deter any sort of pursuit at least until the next day. He did not stop running until he crested a hill, long cloak billowing out behind the swordsman.

“I save their lives from the vampire and they run me out of town,” came his melodious voice. Though almost strictly stanch, a hint of sorrow could be heard. “Where’s the justice in that?”

“Justice is an overrated concept,” said the voice from his left hand. “You know it’s not what you do, but what you are that they see.”

In the darkness D’s eyes flashed crimson and then faded. A musical sound chimed as his sword, wiped clean of the blood, slip smoothly into his sheath at his back. One finger tipped up his hat. Time to find a new town and a new place to lay his head down...

Until the next time....




“

The Duty of Love

Eldan had no idea how long he’d been walking through the forest for. It was cold, dark, and wet. This was not a good combination in any situation. When he’d started out, the forest had been pleasant. Light had streamed through the canopy in beams of glittering emerald light. Now, there was a faint light that seeped through the canopy. It was more of a grey than a green now. The canopy thrashed with wild abandon, and the wind howled through the trunks. It almost sounded like a moaning for him to turn back, but he couldn’t do that.

He staggered as his green cloak snagged on a branch. He freed it and continued onward, travelling at a slow pace. His cloak was more tatters than anything else now. He cursed as his scabbard also caught on some undergrowth. It was thoughts of Tyanna that kept him going forward. He drew his short sword and began to hack at any branch that dared to
cross his path, his determination turning to anger. As his anger raged on the outside, a nagging worry pulled at his very soul. Would he be in time to save her? Was he even looking in the right place? These thoughts only served to increase his determination.


The trees began to grow closer together, and he found it harder and harder to continue on. Sound seemed muffled in this part of the forest, the dry crunch of his feet on fallen leaves not a crisp sounding as it had been before. Breathing seemed harder. The air was thick and moist here, almost stifling, but at the same time, chilling to the bone. Suddenly, he felt the faint touch of wind on his left cheek. He turned towards the direction the wind had come from. There was definitely a breeze coming through from that direction, so he forged onwards, his course adjusted to head towards the wind.

As he drew closer to the wind, the trees thinned slightly. It had to be the right place. Soon, he could see a break in the trees ahead. He stepped out into a clearing. The thrashing wind and pouring rain stopped almost as soon as his foot hit the ground of the clearing.

The silence was deafening. The clearing was covered in short-stemmed delicate purple flowers. Towards the centre of the clearing, rising on a thick stalk, that was twice as high as the purple flowers, was a golden flower. Its petals were opened wide, and it had a deep scarlet centre.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as memory flooded back to him.

************************************************** *************************

Tyanna lay on a bed, her golden hair arrayed around her head. It framed a delicate mouthed face. Her skin was pale, and slicked with sweat. She looked up at him with eyes full of sorrow. She reached out a hand to him, and he took it.

“I don’t have much time left, my love. I’m glad you could make it. My dearest wish was to see you one last time.”

He bent over her and gave her a tender kiss. “I rode as quickly as I could,” he said. His face firmed, and he took on a look of grim resolve. “By chance, on the way, I heard a tale of a flower that is said to be able to cure any illness,” he said, as Tyanna’s eyes took on a faint glimmer of hope.

“Go, my love,” she said. “I know that this is something you must do. I will see you again, love, in this world or the next.”

They embraced as they both wept together.

************************************************** *************************

A tear slid down Eldan’s cheek as the memory faded. He wiped it away and strode to the center of the clearing. He stooped to pick the flower, but as he was about to pluck it from its stem, he turned, sensing rather than hearing the menacing creature that attacked without warning from behind.

It crashed into him and they both hit the ground. Eldan grunted as the air was driven from his lungs by the impact. There was a moment of scuffling and tangled limbs, and then both combatants were up. There was a ringing sound of steel as Eldan unsheathed his blade.
The creature before him snarled, its eyes glinting murderously. It was humanoid in appearance, but it was heavily muscled, and had matted grey fur. Its face was a snarling snout, and its mouth was bared, with razor sharp teeth. It had long sharp claws on each of its fingers, and it raised its hands, the claws clicking together with anticipation.

The beast made the first move. It bounded towards Eldan with an unexpected speed for its size, the clawed hands slashing horizontally. Eldan barely parried them with his blade, and then they were locked, the claws trying to force the blade aside, and the blade trying to hold the claws back. Inch by inch, Eldan’s blade was pushed aside, until Eldan gave a hearty kick into the creature’s stomach that sent it reeling backwards.

The creature seemed to be only further enraged by this, and it renewed its attack with doubled vigor. This time, Eldan kept space between him and the beast, and he returned blows as often as he parried them. His blade seemed unable to damage the creature’s claws at all. He tried to think of some way he could strike at the creature’s body, but as he was absorbed in thought about how to strike it, he left himself open in a careless parry, and the claws slashed his arm. Eldan cried out in pain, and the creature licked its lips, reveling in the bloodshed.
Eldan knew he couldn’t fight it for much longer. He had to end it now.

Suddenly, he thought of an idea. He swung his injured arm in a horizontal arc, and blood flicked off his arm, and into the creatures eyes. It raised its hands reflexively to cover its face, and that gave Eldan the opening he needed. He thrust his sword into the beast’s chest, and buried the blade almost to the hilt. He gave the blade a twist, as the creature howled, and it fell as he removed his blade, sending purple petals fluttering into the air as it hit the ground, dead.

Eldan tore a strip off his cloak and tied it around his injured arm. He turned to collect his prize, and to his dismay, he couldn’t find it. The golden flower had been right in the center of the clearing. That location, he realized, was now occupied by the creature’s corpse. He heaved, and finally managed to move the corpse. The remains of the flower filled him with an almost unquenchable sorrow.

He fell to his knees with a cry of anguish, picking up the crushed flower. Its nectar pod had been split open, and all of its healing juices were crushed from it. A single drop struck the ruined flower, and he looked up at the sky, where there was not a cloud to be seen.