- Invitation Status
- Not accepting invites at this time
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Hello Iwakuans! The submissions are in, and the time has come to read the entries for this second run of Flash Fiction Selections. We gave you all the challenge of fitting a story in as little as 750 words, along with the following theme:
Birth of a Legend.
To add in to the challenge we also gave you four quotes to choose and incorporate in your pieces that match the theme:
- "I was born for this"
- "From ashes they rise"
- "Legends aren't born, they are created."
- "All know the end of this/his/her tale, but few know the beginning."
Enjoy the wonderful submissions and leave a review if you like. However, remember, unlike the Misc. contest there will be no public voting. The Flash Fiction Selection is meant to be a challenge to complete a story within a short time with a limited amount of words. So, instead of winners there there will be Finalists, chosen and nominated by the judges. If one particular piece stands out a Grand Finalist will be announced, but a round may very well pass without one being chosen. The pieces of the Finalists and Grand Finalist will receive a special spot in the FFS Hall of Fame and the writers get snazzy ribbons under their usernames to show off!
Your judges for this event are: @Turtle of Doom, @Nemopedia, @Dipper, @Elle Joyner, and @Holmishire
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- You can still leave a review for the submissions if you like! Just because this isn't a contest and there will be no public voting doesn't mean that we will take away the fun of reviewing. To help you a little we shall reveal the judging rubric the judges use to choose the Finalists of this event in the 'Rubric' tab.
- Please make sure to read over the rules under the tab 'Rules' before you leave and write your reviews.
- Submissions may contain graphic material. Only entries with explicit sexual content are marked with NSFW.
- Finalists will be announced later down the road after the release of this thread.
- There will be multiple Finalists. It can also happen that the judges decides that everyone is nominated as a Finalist.
- The title of Grand Finalist will be reserved for the one exceptional piece that the judges believe deserves some extra recognition and attention. However, not every FFS will see a Grand Finalist announced.
- Unless the author explicitly expressed the wish for anonymity all entries will be published with the author's name attached next to it.
- You can still leave a review for the submissions if you like! Just because this isn't a contest and there will be no public voting doesn't mean that we will take away the fun of reviewing. To help you a little we shall reveal the judging rubric the judges use to choose the Finalists of this event in the 'Rubric' tab.
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- You are welcome to leave a review and critiques of the entries. However, keep in mind to keep it constructive and civil. Pointing out spelling mistakes, or grammatical errors is fine. However, downright insulting the writing of the author is a no-go.
- You are encouraged to read every submission before reviewing. None of the entries exceeds the 750 word count, so they aren't exceptionally long. We know we can't enforce this rule, but try to give every piece the attention it deserves!
- Not all entries are open for reviewing. These submissions are marked as 'No reviews' or 'Judge only reviews'. Please respect that wish and refrain from reviewing these entries.
- We encourage you to lay down the strengths and weaknesses of the submissions based on the rubric instead of letter/numerical grading. This is because point/grade systems can vary in interpretation and understanding. We invite you to write out why you find it a hit (or miss) at certain points over lazily grading it.
- The rubric provided is entirely optional for use. You don't have to follow it. It is merely to give you an idea on how the judges will review the submissions.
- You are welcome to leave a review and critiques of the entries. However, keep in mind to keep it constructive and civil. Pointing out spelling mistakes, or grammatical errors is fine. However, downright insulting the writing of the author is a no-go.
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Cohesiveness
- Did the author manage to bring a complete story to the table?
- How did the entry match the prompts given? Did it fit, or did it feel forced?
- Is there a clear beginning and end? Does it flow seamlessly from beginning to end?
- Were there any lines, or details that you felt like unnecessary? Or did every line have its function?
- How engaging was the story?
Engagement
- How did the author convey the emotion in the story? Did it sway you, manage to pull you in?
- How engaging did you find the story to be as a reader?
- Did the mood feel appropriate for the setting given? Did it make sense?
Originality
- How creative did you find the entry accompanied with the prompts given? Was the plot a refreshing take on the prompts, or did it show a lot of imagination?
- What about the plot twists? Did the writer manage to surprise you?
- Did the author make use of any literary devices (foreshadowing, euphemisms, personification, etc...)? What did you think of the execution of it?
- Are there any underlying themes or subplots that you could find?
Polish
- Are there any spelling/grammar errors in the piece? If so, did they distract or add up in the story?
- What about punctuation and sentence structure? Did they vary, or was the writer lacking in that department?
- Were there any words that you would have replaced, or that confused you?
- What did you think of the paragraphs? Were they properly formed, or perhaps too long? How did it affect the reading?
And now, finally to the submissions! Enjoy!
Open to reviews. Written by @neobendium. (748 words)
"I was born for this," Amara snarled into the mirror. Sharp blue eyes spat fire from under furrowed brows, and her freckled nose was wrinkled in her anger. Her hands gripped the edge of the counter with white knuckles as she stared into the eyes of her reflection.
But after a few minutes, she slumped and ran her fingers through her shoulder-length red hair. "Who am I kidding?" She growled, clearly upset. She absently kicked at the cracked tile under her feet, watching as a few chips of the porcelain flooring were sent skittering across the floor. "I can't be a hero."
"But you can." Her roommate's voice alerted her of the watcher.
"Really?" Amara's words were full of doubt. Would Zaria even be able to understand?
They were opposites in nearly every way, after all- while Amara was short and thick, Zaria was tall and thin. Where Amara had straight and thin red hair, her friend had the thickest bunch of black curls. While Amara had cold, light blue eyes and milky skin, Zaria had eyes like the night sky that sparkled from where they resided in her chocolate-brown face.
And, perhaps most strikingly of all, Zaria knew how to control her power.
She used it to protect the people of their broken world, to bring hope in the end of the world with her ability to control water. But Amara? Useless. Or, when she wasn't useless, uncontrollable. Neither of those options were very welcoming, were they? Fitting for someone whose power was pyrotechnics. They had always joked that they were as different as night and day, but the problem was...that saying was quite true, and Amara was sure she'd never prove herself. She was even more sure that she would never be Zaria's equal.
"Yes." Zaria's voice was no-nonsense and insistent as she stood up with a frown. The tall girl strode over and grabbed Amara's shoulders. "Listen to me. You are not as uncontrolled as you think you are. You just need to practice."
The redhead scowled and batted her friend's hands away. "Practice won't do much for me."
She scoffed in response. "If you have that view, you'll never be able to save anyone."
"Then tell me what to do!" Desperate, Amara stared up into her face with a frown and a trembling lip. "All I do is mess up."
Zaria's eyes softened and she reached down to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "Remember what I told you when we first found out what you could do?"
Amara looked down and mumbled the words begrudgingly. "Legends aren't born, they're created."
"Exactly. You already have the abilities of a legend and the heart of a hero. All you need now is to use that heart to control those abilities. It'll take a while. It did for me. But..." she sighed and let go of her friend. "You can do it. I have faith in you, Amara."
The girl in question let out a heavy sigh and nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll just have to believe you."
Zaria smiled softly. "You'll do great. I promise."
That conversation wasn't the last they would ever have, but it was the one that always stuck out in the redhead's mind. It reminded her that there was hope for the others that couldn't control their abilities. It reminded her that she wasn't as much of a failure as she thought she was. But most of all, it reminded her of how much her friend had helped her. And it was all she could think about as she stared down at Zaria's dying form in her arms, all she could think about as she realized there was no way to return her favor and help her back.
They had won the war. The people were safe. Amara and her best friend had destroyed the Oppression. But...was it really worth it?
Around them, the world burned as Amara unleashed her grief for the loss of her one true friend. But Zaria was smiling. Softly, painfully, but she was smiling. "From ashes, they rise," She whispered as their students, freed from their mental bonds, picked their way through the rubble to the two adults. "We're a legend now. I'm...so proud of you."
And thus marked the beginning of a legend- a shining symbol for all the people, an example and a lesson to put aside their differences and work together. Because together, even stark differences like night and day can save the world.
But after a few minutes, she slumped and ran her fingers through her shoulder-length red hair. "Who am I kidding?" She growled, clearly upset. She absently kicked at the cracked tile under her feet, watching as a few chips of the porcelain flooring were sent skittering across the floor. "I can't be a hero."
"But you can." Her roommate's voice alerted her of the watcher.
"Really?" Amara's words were full of doubt. Would Zaria even be able to understand?
They were opposites in nearly every way, after all- while Amara was short and thick, Zaria was tall and thin. Where Amara had straight and thin red hair, her friend had the thickest bunch of black curls. While Amara had cold, light blue eyes and milky skin, Zaria had eyes like the night sky that sparkled from where they resided in her chocolate-brown face.
And, perhaps most strikingly of all, Zaria knew how to control her power.
She used it to protect the people of their broken world, to bring hope in the end of the world with her ability to control water. But Amara? Useless. Or, when she wasn't useless, uncontrollable. Neither of those options were very welcoming, were they? Fitting for someone whose power was pyrotechnics. They had always joked that they were as different as night and day, but the problem was...that saying was quite true, and Amara was sure she'd never prove herself. She was even more sure that she would never be Zaria's equal.
"Yes." Zaria's voice was no-nonsense and insistent as she stood up with a frown. The tall girl strode over and grabbed Amara's shoulders. "Listen to me. You are not as uncontrolled as you think you are. You just need to practice."
The redhead scowled and batted her friend's hands away. "Practice won't do much for me."
She scoffed in response. "If you have that view, you'll never be able to save anyone."
"Then tell me what to do!" Desperate, Amara stared up into her face with a frown and a trembling lip. "All I do is mess up."
Zaria's eyes softened and she reached down to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "Remember what I told you when we first found out what you could do?"
Amara looked down and mumbled the words begrudgingly. "Legends aren't born, they're created."
"Exactly. You already have the abilities of a legend and the heart of a hero. All you need now is to use that heart to control those abilities. It'll take a while. It did for me. But..." she sighed and let go of her friend. "You can do it. I have faith in you, Amara."
The girl in question let out a heavy sigh and nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll just have to believe you."
Zaria smiled softly. "You'll do great. I promise."
That conversation wasn't the last they would ever have, but it was the one that always stuck out in the redhead's mind. It reminded her that there was hope for the others that couldn't control their abilities. It reminded her that she wasn't as much of a failure as she thought she was. But most of all, it reminded her of how much her friend had helped her. And it was all she could think about as she stared down at Zaria's dying form in her arms, all she could think about as she realized there was no way to return her favor and help her back.
They had won the war. The people were safe. Amara and her best friend had destroyed the Oppression. But...was it really worth it?
Around them, the world burned as Amara unleashed her grief for the loss of her one true friend. But Zaria was smiling. Softly, painfully, but she was smiling. "From ashes, they rise," She whispered as their students, freed from their mental bonds, picked their way through the rubble to the two adults. "We're a legend now. I'm...so proud of you."
And thus marked the beginning of a legend- a shining symbol for all the people, an example and a lesson to put aside their differences and work together. Because together, even stark differences like night and day can save the world.
Open to reviews. Anonymous submission. (750 words)
"I was born for this," the sandy-haired man said, his hands on his hips. He caught an amused glance between the two women and turned toward them with his arms spread wide. "I was! Look at me, 627 years of tailored breeding, building to a specimen of purest physical perfection and lethality-"
"We know Marc," interjected another dark-haired man dryly, interrupting the other's flexing before someone put a knife in him. "We're all four of us Sun Children, if you recall."
The quartet camped at the summit of the narrow pass, the montane landscape stitched by the goat track feeding up from the southlands. Twenty yards down the trail was a stubby tower jutting up like a broken-off thumb to peer over the edge of the world. A customs post to keep raggedy-arsed barbarians from sneaking into Marquale unannounced. The last the Children had seen of them, the agents were riding back down the trail attempting to flog their stubborn beasts into a canter. This would be a job for those born to the duty.
"All Sun Children," the irrepressible Marc replied, looking at the shorter honey-blonde, "but not all of us are the substance of sultans, the most formidable of fighters, the pinnacle of-"
It was her turn to interrupt him then, scarce able to speak past her laughter. "Holy Mother, you're insufferable," Saise chuckled, rising to her feet. Swinging her sword in a loose figure-eight, she walked across and joined him, looking out over the vista to the north. "How are they coming?"
Recently the Sun Children had been fighting bandits more than the daemonborn their order was founded to face. The fell beings had scarce been seen at all, leading to a rumour that they were gone at last. Until Saimhann, when the oracle saw darkness streaming from the wild lands to the north. The royal host gathered on the battlefield of centuries, blocking the only broad pass south through the mountains.
The Children were uneasy, and while the army prepared to fight small teams journeyed to watch even the least likely of routes. The quartet had mixed feelings about missing the battle they had been born for, but this morning's sight reassured them their calling was not so easily escaped.
While the main host occupied the royal army, two daemonlords led their minions up the pass toward their flank. The path was harsh; many died at the brutal pace their masters demanded, but daemons were not known for their caring nature. Get these two thousand into the army's rear, back them with dark magic and the kingdom of men could fall in a week.
The customs agents had sworn blind that they would carry the message to the King's army.
It fell to the quartet to buy them time to withdraw.
When the first raiders spilled over the crest, they met a shower of arrows. Saise slammed arrow after arrow between their blood-red eyes. Marc preferred gut shots, sending them wailing down the path into the teeth of those who followed.
Fur-clad bodies fell in droves.
Soon the four discarded their bows and drew swords and daggers, desperately deflecting the fell blades that sought their lives. Morwen fell in the vicious struggle at the summit. Angeis took a spear through the chest and flung himself forward to buy his friends time to retreat. Leaving the scree covered with bodies, the last Children fled into the tower and barred the door. Then turned to look at the rune they had carved in the floor earlier that morning.
Illuminated by the sun, it glowed with black death energies. But more was needed; a willing sacrifice to trigger the working.
"Marc," his lover began, her knuckles white on the hilt.
"Just do it." He walked into the sunlight and opened his shirt, turning back to face her.
The door leapt under the mounting blows, but Saise existed in a frozen moment where there was only Marc. She followed him, placing the point of her longsword against his chest and closing her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said, and drove it through him hilt-deep.
He sank to his knees, the blood flowing to pool across the sigil, which coruscated with flame - then blinked out.
Beneath the tower the mountain tore open, hurling boulders through the dark host still scaling towards the summit. When the few surviving daemonborn reached the valley, a band of outriders were there to dispatch them.
The King lived to win a great victory.
The legend was forgotten.
"We know Marc," interjected another dark-haired man dryly, interrupting the other's flexing before someone put a knife in him. "We're all four of us Sun Children, if you recall."
The quartet camped at the summit of the narrow pass, the montane landscape stitched by the goat track feeding up from the southlands. Twenty yards down the trail was a stubby tower jutting up like a broken-off thumb to peer over the edge of the world. A customs post to keep raggedy-arsed barbarians from sneaking into Marquale unannounced. The last the Children had seen of them, the agents were riding back down the trail attempting to flog their stubborn beasts into a canter. This would be a job for those born to the duty.
"All Sun Children," the irrepressible Marc replied, looking at the shorter honey-blonde, "but not all of us are the substance of sultans, the most formidable of fighters, the pinnacle of-"
It was her turn to interrupt him then, scarce able to speak past her laughter. "Holy Mother, you're insufferable," Saise chuckled, rising to her feet. Swinging her sword in a loose figure-eight, she walked across and joined him, looking out over the vista to the north. "How are they coming?"
Recently the Sun Children had been fighting bandits more than the daemonborn their order was founded to face. The fell beings had scarce been seen at all, leading to a rumour that they were gone at last. Until Saimhann, when the oracle saw darkness streaming from the wild lands to the north. The royal host gathered on the battlefield of centuries, blocking the only broad pass south through the mountains.
The Children were uneasy, and while the army prepared to fight small teams journeyed to watch even the least likely of routes. The quartet had mixed feelings about missing the battle they had been born for, but this morning's sight reassured them their calling was not so easily escaped.
While the main host occupied the royal army, two daemonlords led their minions up the pass toward their flank. The path was harsh; many died at the brutal pace their masters demanded, but daemons were not known for their caring nature. Get these two thousand into the army's rear, back them with dark magic and the kingdom of men could fall in a week.
The customs agents had sworn blind that they would carry the message to the King's army.
It fell to the quartet to buy them time to withdraw.
When the first raiders spilled over the crest, they met a shower of arrows. Saise slammed arrow after arrow between their blood-red eyes. Marc preferred gut shots, sending them wailing down the path into the teeth of those who followed.
Fur-clad bodies fell in droves.
Soon the four discarded their bows and drew swords and daggers, desperately deflecting the fell blades that sought their lives. Morwen fell in the vicious struggle at the summit. Angeis took a spear through the chest and flung himself forward to buy his friends time to retreat. Leaving the scree covered with bodies, the last Children fled into the tower and barred the door. Then turned to look at the rune they had carved in the floor earlier that morning.
Illuminated by the sun, it glowed with black death energies. But more was needed; a willing sacrifice to trigger the working.
"Marc," his lover began, her knuckles white on the hilt.
"Just do it." He walked into the sunlight and opened his shirt, turning back to face her.
The door leapt under the mounting blows, but Saise existed in a frozen moment where there was only Marc. She followed him, placing the point of her longsword against his chest and closing her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said, and drove it through him hilt-deep.
He sank to his knees, the blood flowing to pool across the sigil, which coruscated with flame - then blinked out.
Beneath the tower the mountain tore open, hurling boulders through the dark host still scaling towards the summit. When the few surviving daemonborn reached the valley, a band of outriders were there to dispatch them.
The King lived to win a great victory.
The legend was forgotten.
Open to reviews. Written by @Doctor Jax. (648 words)
"What was it like? The first time you met my father?"
"Honestly? Terrifying."
Dorian stared over the wall, sweating in his armor. No. Those were just rumors.
The tavern-talk had it a corpsethief set a town afire and killed the lot, enslaving the dead. Tall tales, of course, but… he remembered one woman, gesticulating wildly with a stein.
"Then, from ashes they rose, like mushrooms after rain. He's headed right for the capital, too - for revenge."
Nonsense, of course.
But now, before the castle gates stood a young man with midnight hair and heavy eyes leading a mass grave. The dead men he spearheaded were burnt to various degrees, some little more than charred skeletons, a town's worth of souls.
Dorian's veins filled with ice.
Pops said all the corpsethieves were drowned by decree. Unless… no, he's too young.
The captain shouted to take aim, and the veterans loaded silver-tipped bolts. Yet, the corpsethief did not advance.
What was he waiting for?
"None of us understood. We thought he was like the others. A being of violation. But then… he stepped aside."
The young man stood back and allowed a charred corpse in ornate, but singed, robes to come forward, law book in hand.
"We wish," the corpse croaked, "for an audience with the Magis."
There was a thrum of unease. A conference conspired, and after some heated debate, Dorian – quivering – was told to stay his post.
"We will allow this – but the corpsethief stays under trigger!"
The youth nodded, the dead streaming past him into the castle. Alone in the courtyard, his dark eyes scanned the soldiers. Every finger itched.
"Don't try anything, gravebreaker!" the captain warned.
He remained painfully still.
"What do you want anyways?!" Dorian shouted, trigger ready.
The man's mouth twitched.
"Justice."
"Didn't someone try to shoot him?"
"Yeah, Private Orrison. Oddly that's how we became friends."
"Crock of-" Orrison muttered beside Dorian, and his eyes widened as the older man took his finger off the trigger guard.
"No!" Dorian yelled, knocking the crossbow's end upward. The bolt flew wild.
Below, the young man flinched, a spark of mortal fear in his eyes. But he stood his ground, giving Dorian a look that spoke miles as Dorian glanced back. The boy nodded his head in thanks. Dorian returned it in kind.
"His village was razed by a competing guild. No one would have known – they were in disguise and he was the only one left alive. It was his first case as Advocate. We talked about it for months. He somehow snuck almost 60 corpses into the capital, up to the gate. I still don't know how he did it."
"So the dead knew and let him puppet them anyways?"
"Well, they had raised him. And they trusted him. Eventually, that trust paid off. The king put to death that Guildmaster three years later, after a long investigation."
"And…his town?"
"He let them have their peace."
Dorian found him in Stafford's ruin, the last grave dug. The man – Garret – hadn't even let the dead dig their own resting places. He turned to the soldier behind him, and Dorian swallowed as he was subject to Garret's thousand-pound stare.
"The king… wants you in his employ."
Garret's brow furrowed.
"To keep an eye on me."
"I don't think so," Dorian professed, shaking his head slowly. "I think… he wants to give you a chance. Right some wrongs. Grant some-"
"Justice," Garret finished.
"Peace," Dorian corrected.
Garret stuck the shovel into the last grave and sighed, his smile longing.
"Got nothing better to do anyways."
"Some people don't understand. They'll always think he was an abomination, because of what he could do. But to me – to those who knew him… he was a legend. Don't you let anyone tell you otherwise."
"Honestly? Terrifying."
*
Dorian stared over the wall, sweating in his armor. No. Those were just rumors.
The tavern-talk had it a corpsethief set a town afire and killed the lot, enslaving the dead. Tall tales, of course, but… he remembered one woman, gesticulating wildly with a stein.
"Then, from ashes they rose, like mushrooms after rain. He's headed right for the capital, too - for revenge."
Nonsense, of course.
But now, before the castle gates stood a young man with midnight hair and heavy eyes leading a mass grave. The dead men he spearheaded were burnt to various degrees, some little more than charred skeletons, a town's worth of souls.
Dorian's veins filled with ice.
Pops said all the corpsethieves were drowned by decree. Unless… no, he's too young.
The captain shouted to take aim, and the veterans loaded silver-tipped bolts. Yet, the corpsethief did not advance.
What was he waiting for?
*
"None of us understood. We thought he was like the others. A being of violation. But then… he stepped aside."
*
The young man stood back and allowed a charred corpse in ornate, but singed, robes to come forward, law book in hand.
"We wish," the corpse croaked, "for an audience with the Magis."
There was a thrum of unease. A conference conspired, and after some heated debate, Dorian – quivering – was told to stay his post.
"We will allow this – but the corpsethief stays under trigger!"
The youth nodded, the dead streaming past him into the castle. Alone in the courtyard, his dark eyes scanned the soldiers. Every finger itched.
"Don't try anything, gravebreaker!" the captain warned.
He remained painfully still.
"What do you want anyways?!" Dorian shouted, trigger ready.
The man's mouth twitched.
"Justice."
*
"Didn't someone try to shoot him?"
"Yeah, Private Orrison. Oddly that's how we became friends."
*
"Crock of-" Orrison muttered beside Dorian, and his eyes widened as the older man took his finger off the trigger guard.
"No!" Dorian yelled, knocking the crossbow's end upward. The bolt flew wild.
Below, the young man flinched, a spark of mortal fear in his eyes. But he stood his ground, giving Dorian a look that spoke miles as Dorian glanced back. The boy nodded his head in thanks. Dorian returned it in kind.
*
"His village was razed by a competing guild. No one would have known – they were in disguise and he was the only one left alive. It was his first case as Advocate. We talked about it for months. He somehow snuck almost 60 corpses into the capital, up to the gate. I still don't know how he did it."
"So the dead knew and let him puppet them anyways?"
"Well, they had raised him. And they trusted him. Eventually, that trust paid off. The king put to death that Guildmaster three years later, after a long investigation."
"And…his town?"
"He let them have their peace."
*
Dorian found him in Stafford's ruin, the last grave dug. The man – Garret – hadn't even let the dead dig their own resting places. He turned to the soldier behind him, and Dorian swallowed as he was subject to Garret's thousand-pound stare.
"The king… wants you in his employ."
Garret's brow furrowed.
"To keep an eye on me."
"I don't think so," Dorian professed, shaking his head slowly. "I think… he wants to give you a chance. Right some wrongs. Grant some-"
"Justice," Garret finished.
"Peace," Dorian corrected.
Garret stuck the shovel into the last grave and sighed, his smile longing.
"Got nothing better to do anyways."
*
"Some people don't understand. They'll always think he was an abomination, because of what he could do. But to me – to those who knew him… he was a legend. Don't you let anyone tell you otherwise."
Open to reviews. Written by @Greenie. (179 words)
She was known far and wide as the Monster, the name sending intrigue, uneasiness and dread through people whenever they caught sight of her. A sensible person would have chosen to simply abandon their mission and fight another day.
Yet here I was, the only survivor, locked in a one on one battle with her. She had never met me nor I her, but as our fiery gazes met, we knew this was no longer a battle of strength or speed. The time for that had long passed, not that it had availed the others. This had always been one of endurance.
I was not going to back down; I was born for this.
The deadlock was at last broken when a cry of frustration left her. "Fine! I- I can't! I give up!"
There was a stunned silence, and then- "AW, HELL YEAH!" I had done it! I had won!
And that, my dear children, was how I became known as the Destroyer, the one to finally beat the Monster in the 'All You Can Eat Cupcake Challenge'.
Yet here I was, the only survivor, locked in a one on one battle with her. She had never met me nor I her, but as our fiery gazes met, we knew this was no longer a battle of strength or speed. The time for that had long passed, not that it had availed the others. This had always been one of endurance.
I was not going to back down; I was born for this.
The deadlock was at last broken when a cry of frustration left her. "Fine! I- I can't! I give up!"
There was a stunned silence, and then- "AW, HELL YEAH!" I had done it! I had won!
And that, my dear children, was how I became known as the Destroyer, the one to finally beat the Monster in the 'All You Can Eat Cupcake Challenge'.
Open to reviews. Anonymous submission. (749 words)
A blanket of darkness and frost had settled upon the land. With Luna's radiance gone, the pitch of night clung tight. And without Sol's warmth, earth and living both grew to be dead stiff. In the clutch of winter's frigid bosom, all were overcome, a part from two silhouettes enveloped by the twilit glow of flames. The smallest, sat at ease watching the other, which by comparison seemed enormous and stood astute. Its flickering shadow was that of a man. Having rounded shoulders, burly biceps and a broad back. Shadow had changed little from the past, as now old arms raised and fell to find painful resistance where hammer met iron.
"Klang... Klang... Klang..."
Rhythmic were the motions of work. Sweat gleamed off the blacksmith's brazen skin, whose scars spoke of hard fought battles long since won. Inside the hovel, the breath of fire gently enveloped them. Guarding the two as the night marched on, with the bitter cold laying wait.
Bare feet shuffled and red iron returned to flame. With sharp eyes, the old blacksmith watched the furnace and inspected the new blade. His presence all but obscuring the heat. With his lumbering frame and attention turned away, the encroaching darkness captured the room, before a whispering wind adventured inside. Laying hand on the young child, a numb chill ran up its spine, and they began to shiver in the twilight of warmth. The voice of the blacksmith appeared, and reverberated into the familiar croak as his story continued.
"The line was all but confusion, and on verge of rout. Commander shouted orders, but found few to listen. Men fled and threw their arms, others froze stiff with fright. Those of brave heart were able to stand proud. But hardly a soul could glare at death, on its way by sea of men."
Silence soon seized the hovel. The blacksmith took his time in removing the hot iron from the furnace. As he once again picked up his hammer so too did his tale.
"As we stood and ran, there came a cry. Not the commander's plea for order, but a voice of conviction. ... A mule. A non-combatant who gathered up a soldier's arms and ran to the fore. Like the squeak of a mouse in stampede, only I and few others heard, but hear we did.
Brothers!"
The blacksmith's voice grew hoarse.
"Brothers! ... You charge falsely! That! Is where our enemy awaits defeat! ...
Hmph. We looked on, watching a man driven mad by fear we thought. That was no way for mule to speak to soldiers."
A long pause, as persistent as the cold night followed. Only the stoking of the furnace's flames which had began to ebb and dim broke it.
"Brothers we were. But brothers we did not act. ...
He reminded us, of the legends told to small boys in the village. ... Stirred within us strong envy, for want of courage. The proud among us, and I, began to take after him. With no hope of surviving, we could not allow a mule to show more courage than we. As we ran, the frozen behind followed too, and even the fleeing, turned and fled our way. ...
The gust of defeat was upon us, and all our fires snuffed. Yet his was aglow and continued to burn hot. Ignited by the wind it grew and grew, until it kindled our own. ...
When the wall crashed upon us, it was clear he had been unfit for battle. ... Twas known, he could not fight with mail. But he needn't it. ... Too short was he for cavalry's reach. And pikes could but graze as he swiftly battered them. ... He fought fierce. Like a freed lion tasting freedom. Shield was sword and sword shield. ... Nothing conquered his fang and claw. Save the arrow of a hunter. ..."
The blacksmith grew still, light gleaming off his eyes, before he returned the room to a long darkness.
"We buried him in that valley, among our brothers. None knew of his name or family. Our respect, could but carry us on in his stead. ... After that day, we carried on the war, never to flee again. When Fortuna favored our enemy, we would hear his cry for brothers ring and stood fast. ...
True heroes are not born, they are forged. With a heart of courage, ready to take blows with head held high. No matter flinch or flee, to keep your fire alight, and with it iron blood red hot. Is all one needs."
"Klang... Klang... Klang..."
Rhythmic were the motions of work. Sweat gleamed off the blacksmith's brazen skin, whose scars spoke of hard fought battles long since won. Inside the hovel, the breath of fire gently enveloped them. Guarding the two as the night marched on, with the bitter cold laying wait.
Bare feet shuffled and red iron returned to flame. With sharp eyes, the old blacksmith watched the furnace and inspected the new blade. His presence all but obscuring the heat. With his lumbering frame and attention turned away, the encroaching darkness captured the room, before a whispering wind adventured inside. Laying hand on the young child, a numb chill ran up its spine, and they began to shiver in the twilight of warmth. The voice of the blacksmith appeared, and reverberated into the familiar croak as his story continued.
"The line was all but confusion, and on verge of rout. Commander shouted orders, but found few to listen. Men fled and threw their arms, others froze stiff with fright. Those of brave heart were able to stand proud. But hardly a soul could glare at death, on its way by sea of men."
Silence soon seized the hovel. The blacksmith took his time in removing the hot iron from the furnace. As he once again picked up his hammer so too did his tale.
"As we stood and ran, there came a cry. Not the commander's plea for order, but a voice of conviction. ... A mule. A non-combatant who gathered up a soldier's arms and ran to the fore. Like the squeak of a mouse in stampede, only I and few others heard, but hear we did.
Brothers!"
The blacksmith's voice grew hoarse.
"Brothers! ... You charge falsely! That! Is where our enemy awaits defeat! ...
Hmph. We looked on, watching a man driven mad by fear we thought. That was no way for mule to speak to soldiers."
A long pause, as persistent as the cold night followed. Only the stoking of the furnace's flames which had began to ebb and dim broke it.
"Brothers we were. But brothers we did not act. ...
He reminded us, of the legends told to small boys in the village. ... Stirred within us strong envy, for want of courage. The proud among us, and I, began to take after him. With no hope of surviving, we could not allow a mule to show more courage than we. As we ran, the frozen behind followed too, and even the fleeing, turned and fled our way. ...
The gust of defeat was upon us, and all our fires snuffed. Yet his was aglow and continued to burn hot. Ignited by the wind it grew and grew, until it kindled our own. ...
When the wall crashed upon us, it was clear he had been unfit for battle. ... Twas known, he could not fight with mail. But he needn't it. ... Too short was he for cavalry's reach. And pikes could but graze as he swiftly battered them. ... He fought fierce. Like a freed lion tasting freedom. Shield was sword and sword shield. ... Nothing conquered his fang and claw. Save the arrow of a hunter. ..."
The blacksmith grew still, light gleaming off his eyes, before he returned the room to a long darkness.
"We buried him in that valley, among our brothers. None knew of his name or family. Our respect, could but carry us on in his stead. ... After that day, we carried on the war, never to flee again. When Fortuna favored our enemy, we would hear his cry for brothers ring and stood fast. ...
True heroes are not born, they are forged. With a heart of courage, ready to take blows with head held high. No matter flinch or flee, to keep your fire alight, and with it iron blood red hot. Is all one needs."
Open to reviews. Written by @Astroblaze. (738 words)
Some heroes are born with their powers. Others are given them in an extraordinary opportunity from a larger force. Others use their own ingenuity to build their own. My powers were an accident that simultaneously fixed and ruined my life. My name is Carson Pierpont. Many have witnessed the results of my tale, but only a select few know its origin.
I was born the eldest of three children in a family of geniuses. My life was mostly ordinary until I was diagnosed with leukemia at twelve years old, beginning the slow and painful process of hospitalization and medication that would continue for the next several years, destroying my health, social life, and reputation as it dragged on.
I am nineteen now and still sickly, but not for the same reason. A couple years ago I got an opportunity to visit the nuclear power plant where my father works. Apparently my father had told them about my illness because everyone was a bit too kind to me, which was annoying but at least it got me into places where I probably would not have been allowed otherwise.
The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital, my entire body aching. That in itself is far from unusual, but being told that I just barely survived a nuclear meltdown and could still die certainly is not. Apparently I had been inside the reaction chamber when it malfunctioned and thus took the brunt of the fallout. When I asked about the escort that I recalled having, I was informed that he had already died of his own exposure. Miraculously, he was the only casualty of the incident as the staff had evacuated in time, but his tragic fate did not bode well for me. All I knew was that I was miserable, and considering my knowledge of radiation poisoning from what I had learned during cancer treatments, I did not expect to survive the week. Accordingly, waking up the next morning with my symptoms markedly diminished surprised everyone including myself. In addition, while I was hospitalized for the exposure, I was found to be completely cancerfree. However, the same scan that confirmed that encouraging diagnosis also found a strange, radioactive energy mass near my heart. Such a thing had never been discovered before and there was no way to remove it, but it seemed harmless and was predicted to die out. Cautiously optimistic in view of these developments and with little else they could do for me, the doctors allowed me to return home a few days later.
Months passed with no change to my symptoms as follow-up scans revealed that the energy mass had not died out but in fact seemed inclined to stay exactly as it was, almost as though it had integrated itself into my body. As this persisted, I grew suspicious, having grown up reading superhero comics and now seeing myself in a strikingly similar position as many who obtained their powers from an accident, and started researching radiation manipulation, testing the practices that I uncovered until I uncovered a mental link to the energy core—as I now realized that was what it was—housed in my chest. Further experimentation revealed not only the ability to generate and emit radiation at will in practically any form imaginable but also the ability to morph into the massive, humanoid monstrosity that I dubbed Uranium after the isotope of that name. With newfound powers, an awareness of the superpowered crime plaguing my area, and dozens of fictional heroes to motivate me, taking to the streets as a radiation-powered superhero was the most logical course of action.
Since I adopted the responsibility of defending my area from my equals of the reverse mindset, my daily life has become much busier and more dangerous, but I have found partners and friends in a pair of teen superheroes with similar responsibilities in different areas of the United States, along with the assistance of my family and friends, whom I entrusted with the dangerous secret of my alternate identity. Being Uranium is far from easy, but the responsibility has given me a new sense of purpose in a life that would otherwise be mundane. I might look like a naked green Slenderman on steroids when I am in the Uranium form, but know this: I am a hero, and I always will be. Nothing will change what I have become.
I was born the eldest of three children in a family of geniuses. My life was mostly ordinary until I was diagnosed with leukemia at twelve years old, beginning the slow and painful process of hospitalization and medication that would continue for the next several years, destroying my health, social life, and reputation as it dragged on.
I am nineteen now and still sickly, but not for the same reason. A couple years ago I got an opportunity to visit the nuclear power plant where my father works. Apparently my father had told them about my illness because everyone was a bit too kind to me, which was annoying but at least it got me into places where I probably would not have been allowed otherwise.
The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital, my entire body aching. That in itself is far from unusual, but being told that I just barely survived a nuclear meltdown and could still die certainly is not. Apparently I had been inside the reaction chamber when it malfunctioned and thus took the brunt of the fallout. When I asked about the escort that I recalled having, I was informed that he had already died of his own exposure. Miraculously, he was the only casualty of the incident as the staff had evacuated in time, but his tragic fate did not bode well for me. All I knew was that I was miserable, and considering my knowledge of radiation poisoning from what I had learned during cancer treatments, I did not expect to survive the week. Accordingly, waking up the next morning with my symptoms markedly diminished surprised everyone including myself. In addition, while I was hospitalized for the exposure, I was found to be completely cancerfree. However, the same scan that confirmed that encouraging diagnosis also found a strange, radioactive energy mass near my heart. Such a thing had never been discovered before and there was no way to remove it, but it seemed harmless and was predicted to die out. Cautiously optimistic in view of these developments and with little else they could do for me, the doctors allowed me to return home a few days later.
Months passed with no change to my symptoms as follow-up scans revealed that the energy mass had not died out but in fact seemed inclined to stay exactly as it was, almost as though it had integrated itself into my body. As this persisted, I grew suspicious, having grown up reading superhero comics and now seeing myself in a strikingly similar position as many who obtained their powers from an accident, and started researching radiation manipulation, testing the practices that I uncovered until I uncovered a mental link to the energy core—as I now realized that was what it was—housed in my chest. Further experimentation revealed not only the ability to generate and emit radiation at will in practically any form imaginable but also the ability to morph into the massive, humanoid monstrosity that I dubbed Uranium after the isotope of that name. With newfound powers, an awareness of the superpowered crime plaguing my area, and dozens of fictional heroes to motivate me, taking to the streets as a radiation-powered superhero was the most logical course of action.
Since I adopted the responsibility of defending my area from my equals of the reverse mindset, my daily life has become much busier and more dangerous, but I have found partners and friends in a pair of teen superheroes with similar responsibilities in different areas of the United States, along with the assistance of my family and friends, whom I entrusted with the dangerous secret of my alternate identity. Being Uranium is far from easy, but the responsibility has given me a new sense of purpose in a life that would otherwise be mundane. I might look like a naked green Slenderman on steroids when I am in the Uranium form, but know this: I am a hero, and I always will be. Nothing will change what I have become.
Open to reviews. Written by @Pahn. (746 words)
It all started when a star fell from the night sky.
A bright white twinkle dashed across the inky blue sky, and one could almost see the sparkling dust it left in its path. A moment later, a scream tore through the village and the child was born. A beautiful babe with a delicate mop of red hair on its head, and eyes a radiant green that would leave jewellers envious. For decades, the village had prayed and sacrificed everything they had, in hopes of such a blessing.
It grew into a feisty toddler by the name of Emery. By the age of five, his first initiation began. The scale-like surface of his arms was burned, to make it regrow stronger and thicker. Emery refused to cry, and he was already being praised for his bravery. Every year, another scaly surface to purge, another festival of the Dragon.
Dark times were on the horizon, however. By the time Emery was a teenager, a handful of babes were born, each of them covered in more scales than he could have ever hoped to have. Blessed by the Dragon Lords, the elders proclaimed. The boy was casted aside and the following years, he was burned last, with embers that barely carried the fiery desire of his ancestors. Still he would not weep, and by the time he reached adulthood, Emery only had half of his body covered in scales. They shimmered a deep red like his hair, but his face remained that of a man and the fire in his throat would not leave. The elders deemed him a failure, and in the village he was no longer welcomed.
Now, decades have passed, and Emery has travelled across the land. Half dragon, half human. He observed the festival once a year all the same and continues to push his own flesh and blood further still. On the eve of his fortieth birthday, Emery stumbled into a dark cave in the middle of a mountain and fell to his knees. For the first time in his life, the man wept and yelled at the Dragon Lords, cursing them for his unfortunate life. A half-life, he called it, for he was neither a dragon nor a man, just the worse of both.
"Emery..." The sepulchral voice made his skin crawl and pulled him out of his self-wallowing.
"Who is there?" The man pushed himself back up and staggered further into the cave, squinting at the swallowing darkness.
"Emery... Why do you reject our gift?" The voice was louder and shook the rocks on the ground.
"Gift? This is a curse, not a gift!" As though to prove his statement, Emery contracted the muscles of his throat and blew out a small string of smoke. The fire prickled the back of his mouth but refused to come out.
"We will show you, Emery."
Before he could respond, a strong gust of warm air pushed him out of the cave. Strung out on the edge of the mountain, the wind relentlessly pushed him until he was thrown off. Emery's scream tore the silence of the night and he fell. Fell, fell, fell until he sensed his entire body being consumed by a raging fire. He opened his eyes and all he could see were the searing flames surrounding him.
"Fly to your village, Emery. They need you."
The voice seemed to be coming from inside his head, sending bolts of pain through his gut. He wanted to reply, to tell the voice he had been cast out of his village.
"From ashes legends rise, Emery. You are one of us now. You are a Dragon Lord. Save them."
If he could have laughed, he probably would have. But the pain from his gut passed to his shoulders and before he could process the changes, large wings sprouted from his back and carried him smoothly over the trees. His vision was still white from pain but the voices in his head pressed him on.
"I am a Dragon." Emery's voice came out as a crackle and feeling the fire in his throat again, he blew it out as hard as he could. With a victorious smile, Emery the Dragon Lord flew to his home village and vanquished the evil spirits that had laid claim on it. With the blessing of his people, he ruled the land for his entire lifetime, and for generations they wrote about his deep red scales and emerald-like eyes.
A bright white twinkle dashed across the inky blue sky, and one could almost see the sparkling dust it left in its path. A moment later, a scream tore through the village and the child was born. A beautiful babe with a delicate mop of red hair on its head, and eyes a radiant green that would leave jewellers envious. For decades, the village had prayed and sacrificed everything they had, in hopes of such a blessing.
It grew into a feisty toddler by the name of Emery. By the age of five, his first initiation began. The scale-like surface of his arms was burned, to make it regrow stronger and thicker. Emery refused to cry, and he was already being praised for his bravery. Every year, another scaly surface to purge, another festival of the Dragon.
Dark times were on the horizon, however. By the time Emery was a teenager, a handful of babes were born, each of them covered in more scales than he could have ever hoped to have. Blessed by the Dragon Lords, the elders proclaimed. The boy was casted aside and the following years, he was burned last, with embers that barely carried the fiery desire of his ancestors. Still he would not weep, and by the time he reached adulthood, Emery only had half of his body covered in scales. They shimmered a deep red like his hair, but his face remained that of a man and the fire in his throat would not leave. The elders deemed him a failure, and in the village he was no longer welcomed.
Now, decades have passed, and Emery has travelled across the land. Half dragon, half human. He observed the festival once a year all the same and continues to push his own flesh and blood further still. On the eve of his fortieth birthday, Emery stumbled into a dark cave in the middle of a mountain and fell to his knees. For the first time in his life, the man wept and yelled at the Dragon Lords, cursing them for his unfortunate life. A half-life, he called it, for he was neither a dragon nor a man, just the worse of both.
"Emery..." The sepulchral voice made his skin crawl and pulled him out of his self-wallowing.
"Who is there?" The man pushed himself back up and staggered further into the cave, squinting at the swallowing darkness.
"Emery... Why do you reject our gift?" The voice was louder and shook the rocks on the ground.
"Gift? This is a curse, not a gift!" As though to prove his statement, Emery contracted the muscles of his throat and blew out a small string of smoke. The fire prickled the back of his mouth but refused to come out.
"We will show you, Emery."
Before he could respond, a strong gust of warm air pushed him out of the cave. Strung out on the edge of the mountain, the wind relentlessly pushed him until he was thrown off. Emery's scream tore the silence of the night and he fell. Fell, fell, fell until he sensed his entire body being consumed by a raging fire. He opened his eyes and all he could see were the searing flames surrounding him.
"Fly to your village, Emery. They need you."
The voice seemed to be coming from inside his head, sending bolts of pain through his gut. He wanted to reply, to tell the voice he had been cast out of his village.
"From ashes legends rise, Emery. You are one of us now. You are a Dragon Lord. Save them."
If he could have laughed, he probably would have. But the pain from his gut passed to his shoulders and before he could process the changes, large wings sprouted from his back and carried him smoothly over the trees. His vision was still white from pain but the voices in his head pressed him on.
"I am a Dragon." Emery's voice came out as a crackle and feeling the fire in his throat again, he blew it out as hard as he could. With a victorious smile, Emery the Dragon Lord flew to his home village and vanquished the evil spirits that had laid claim on it. With the blessing of his people, he ruled the land for his entire lifetime, and for generations they wrote about his deep red scales and emerald-like eyes.
Open to reviews. Written by @esoteric (238 words)
She rests snugly in his pocket, her weight much lighter than her purpose. Nim's thumb glides easily over her glazed brown back, but hesitates on her chalky white belly. It is difficult to stay gentle in the fervor of the moment yet he extends what little energy he has left to handle her with tender care. Nim turns his gaze upwards, up at the dense leaves glowing orange in the rising light—bowing to passerby from their lofty perches, up at the cloudless sky, blue spilling like watercolors into the purple of a relinquished night. The sight is uplifting, an ironic discernment given his current plight.
Fatigue slinks into his bones and life ebbs in waves from his fingers and toes. He can no longer feel the ruthless cold, in its stead a flickering warmth roosts in his chest. Each fallen spark generating the fuel needed to stroke the torpid creature in his pocket. Nim drags his trembling hand against the ragged fin that pierces his thigh from within its flimsy, cotton confines. It's a welcome pain in the heedless oblivion afore him.
A fuzzy shadow eclipses his vision and thoughts desert him. Nim is left with only those two points of pressure, a finger and thigh pressed against a precious clay whale.
Teensy.
She swam her way into the depths of his scorching soul and melded hers with his, and from the ashes he rose sorrowful, yet triumphant.
Fatigue slinks into his bones and life ebbs in waves from his fingers and toes. He can no longer feel the ruthless cold, in its stead a flickering warmth roosts in his chest. Each fallen spark generating the fuel needed to stroke the torpid creature in his pocket. Nim drags his trembling hand against the ragged fin that pierces his thigh from within its flimsy, cotton confines. It's a welcome pain in the heedless oblivion afore him.
A fuzzy shadow eclipses his vision and thoughts desert him. Nim is left with only those two points of pressure, a finger and thigh pressed against a precious clay whale.
Teensy.
She swam her way into the depths of his scorching soul and melded hers with his, and from the ashes he rose sorrowful, yet triumphant.
Open to reviews. Written by @HerziQuerzi. (685 words)
As their number appeared over the door, the young applicant quickly scooped up their belongings and bustled through, loose sheafs of paper scattering behind them like snow. Except much larger and much less entertaining. More likely to give paper cuts, as well. In truth, the applicant thought, there wasn't much in common between snow and paper at all except they're both light and white. If one was feeling generous, they could also point out that a crumbled up sheet of paper is basically a snowball, they supposed.
They were falling apart already.
Inside the doors, five chairs were arranged in a half circle. Four thrones, two per side, and between them a dingy stool beneath an aggressively askewed banner reading 'HONORARY MEMBER'. "That banner is aggressively askew," the applicant pointed out.
"It's temporary." The man sitting beneath the banner was, in truth, roughly the same age as the applicant. Perhaps 438 days younger, at a rough guess. Give or take a few hours. Approximately. Between an atrocious mass of dark 'fro and a patchy beard, the 'HONORARY MEMBER' radiated a mixture of amused and apprehensive.
"The banner?"
"My position."
"Cool. Anyway, thank you all for seeing me-"
"We would have seen you sooner if you hadn't left it to the last hour." Another figure spoke up from their throne. A positively motherly looking figure, mostly in her capacity to direct motherly disapproval towards the applicant. "You're not looking to waste our time, are you?"
The applicant gave a weak grin. "Well considering the overall length, no time really could be wasted." The grin grew stronger in its weakness. "Also, I'd hardly say I left it to the last hour. That's... far too generous. I started with an hour remaining. I finished this-" they held up the rumpled pieces of paper that had survived the pathetic snow simile, "-with closer to four minutes left until the deadline."
Another throne dryly spoke up, the young applicant giving a little wave as they recognized an old boss of theirs. "Great. Amazing. Did you even edit it?"
"God no, I just let the words carry me and hoped for the best. Train of thought kind of thing. Hoped to capture the magnetic charisma of my casual conversations in a slightly more formal, one sided manner with these sheafs of snow- paper. Paper. Just paper, apologies-"
The third throne loudly cleared its throat. Or, rather, the person upon it did. The thrones were as inanimate as [INSERT INANIMATE SHIT]. Might as well retroactively apply that to the paragraph before last as well. The thrones neither clear their throats nor speak dryly, but instead act as replacements for the people sitting upon them to shorthand the need for characters. So with that said...
The third throne loudly cleared its throat. "Perhaps less rambling? You've already burned through two thirds of your alloted time."
"Oh it's all a part of the plan," the young applicant assured, "all a part of the plan. Not that any of this was planned. It was all pretty last minute, a real hectic late night mess. Actually disgraceful. But! I have my optimism. That's a lie. I'm not optimistic. Millenials aren't allowed, you know? It's all about apathy and lowkey depression."
"Well," the fourth throne cut in desperately, "your time is running short, so simply pass over your work over to- no not- I only need one- each- I said one- thank you- now one for each- good there excellent. Good. Yes." The person in the throne started to motion the applicant to leave before pausing. "I must ask- with immediate regret- if you have such low hopes, why bother?"
"Simple," the young applicant said, gathering themself up, back as straight as Ellen Degeneres wasn't. "I was born for this." He looked around at the council confidently before pointing to the 'HONORARY MEMBER'. "As in he's my brother so I'm expecting nepotism to carry me."
"No, no it won't," the 'HONORARY MEMBER' quickly cut in, getting up and physically shooing the young applicant out the door. "If anything I'll judge you more harshly. Good day goodbye getoutbeforeyougetmefired-"
They were falling apart already.
Inside the doors, five chairs were arranged in a half circle. Four thrones, two per side, and between them a dingy stool beneath an aggressively askewed banner reading 'HONORARY MEMBER'. "That banner is aggressively askew," the applicant pointed out.
"It's temporary." The man sitting beneath the banner was, in truth, roughly the same age as the applicant. Perhaps 438 days younger, at a rough guess. Give or take a few hours. Approximately. Between an atrocious mass of dark 'fro and a patchy beard, the 'HONORARY MEMBER' radiated a mixture of amused and apprehensive.
"The banner?"
"My position."
"Cool. Anyway, thank you all for seeing me-"
"We would have seen you sooner if you hadn't left it to the last hour." Another figure spoke up from their throne. A positively motherly looking figure, mostly in her capacity to direct motherly disapproval towards the applicant. "You're not looking to waste our time, are you?"
The applicant gave a weak grin. "Well considering the overall length, no time really could be wasted." The grin grew stronger in its weakness. "Also, I'd hardly say I left it to the last hour. That's... far too generous. I started with an hour remaining. I finished this-" they held up the rumpled pieces of paper that had survived the pathetic snow simile, "-with closer to four minutes left until the deadline."
Another throne dryly spoke up, the young applicant giving a little wave as they recognized an old boss of theirs. "Great. Amazing. Did you even edit it?"
"God no, I just let the words carry me and hoped for the best. Train of thought kind of thing. Hoped to capture the magnetic charisma of my casual conversations in a slightly more formal, one sided manner with these sheafs of snow- paper. Paper. Just paper, apologies-"
The third throne loudly cleared its throat. Or, rather, the person upon it did. The thrones were as inanimate as [INSERT INANIMATE SHIT]. Might as well retroactively apply that to the paragraph before last as well. The thrones neither clear their throats nor speak dryly, but instead act as replacements for the people sitting upon them to shorthand the need for characters. So with that said...
The third throne loudly cleared its throat. "Perhaps less rambling? You've already burned through two thirds of your alloted time."
"Oh it's all a part of the plan," the young applicant assured, "all a part of the plan. Not that any of this was planned. It was all pretty last minute, a real hectic late night mess. Actually disgraceful. But! I have my optimism. That's a lie. I'm not optimistic. Millenials aren't allowed, you know? It's all about apathy and lowkey depression."
"Well," the fourth throne cut in desperately, "your time is running short, so simply pass over your work over to- no not- I only need one- each- I said one- thank you- now one for each- good there excellent. Good. Yes." The person in the throne started to motion the applicant to leave before pausing. "I must ask- with immediate regret- if you have such low hopes, why bother?"
"Simple," the young applicant said, gathering themself up, back as straight as Ellen Degeneres wasn't. "I was born for this." He looked around at the council confidently before pointing to the 'HONORARY MEMBER'. "As in he's my brother so I'm expecting nepotism to carry me."
"No, no it won't," the 'HONORARY MEMBER' quickly cut in, getting up and physically shooing the young applicant out the door. "If anything I'll judge you more harshly. Good day goodbye getoutbeforeyougetmefired-"
credits for writing this thread to @Holmishire
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