Fortnightly Writing Competition - Business of Yore (RESULTS)

[Baron]

Greetings fellow writers,



       Ever wonder at the supply-chain behind the wine cellar kept by Tokein's wood-elves?  Where did all of Mr. Baggin's dishes come from, anyway?  Where do you buy those magnificent wizard hats that Gandalf wears around?  Your challenge this fortnight is to create a short story around a fanciful business idea of yore.  Maybe your main character will be undertaking an historically plausible enterprise before its time, like stringing hammocks between mammoth tusks, or maybe your business idea is just pure fantasy, like salvaging scrap-iron from Dragon poop.  The only strict requirement is that your character be an entrepreneur who actually believes that his idea might change the world, or at least make him a quick buck.

       All entries are to be submitted by Midnight Thursday April 17, with voting to start sometime on the 18th (to accommodate stragglers along the international date line submitting at the last possible moment ).  Write short and prosper -go!

[Baron]

It is good to see that you are all too busy writing your contributions to squander precious moments posting in this thread.   Good.

Only one week left!

[Ponch]

Didn't we just have a writing contest? Is it time for another one already. Sigh. Very well. I shall sharpen my pencil -- so hard to get off the monitor, by the way.

[kconan]

  Its a great theme; very unique and it allows us to write about history which is always a good thing.  Unfortunately, I'm moving in about a week so I don't have the time to submit something worthy.

[Sinitrena]

Little Dove

When she met him, he was a fugitive and she was collecting mushrooms in the woods. It was early autumn and warm but he was hurt and all that was left of his clothes were bloody rags. She didn't bring him to her village, even though she didn't know yet that he was wanted and he was too weak to talk. An arrow was stuck in his leg. She had no idea how he had managed to walk this far from any road with his leg, or how it was possible that he passed out exactly where only she knew to look for mushrooms.

She dribbled water into his mouth and helped him up. There was an old hut not too far away next to a small lake. Once a fisherman had lived there but it had been vacant and nearly forgotten for close to ten years now. She stumbled upon it on a different day when she was looking for herbs in the summer once. She remembered stories of the old man who had lived there from her childhood. She remembered that people talked about him as if he were a dangerous criminal or a ghost. As a child, she believed the stories and feared the woods and the wild animals, the witches and the spirits, and the strangers that came all the way up to their village in the mountains. At the same time she loved them, loved the stories and loved the strangers that brought them and all the things that were either necessary, like the new pot for her grandmother or the sharp knife for her brother, or too expensive but beautiful: the cloth that shimmered in the sunlight or the silver candleholder that no-one needed. When she got older she learned that woods and strangers could be real dangers and that the world outside her village was a lot bigger than she thought possible, but also that the forest offered medicine and food and sometimes shelter and a hiding place for a stranger with an arrow in his leg.

She supported him and walked him to the lake, sat him down on an old chair that was hardly more than a tree trunk. She wasn't a proper healer, not yet anyway, but she knew nonetheless what she had to do. The stranger was conscious now but he was quiet. He looked at her through a fringe of thick black hair and didn't make a sound, neither when she broke the arrow, nor when she drew it out of his leg. He didn't even hiss in pain, nor did he ask her any questions. Neither did she. She focussed on her work: she examined his leg and put temporary bandages around it. Then she left the hut for a moment to collect some herbs that grew nearby to make an ointment from.

He was still sitting on the trunk when she came back. His head had fallen to his chest and the muscles in his face were tense but he was awake and looked up at her. When she was finished dressing his leg with ointment and new bandages, he closed his eyes for a moment before he said: “I'm a thief.”

It wasn't a confession, it wasn't an explanation, there was no remorse or contriteness. There was nothing but a statement of fact. She looked at him confused. Of course she knew that normally strange man weren't crawling through the forest with arrows stuck in their leg and she had assumed that he might be a criminal, but she certainly hadn't expected that he would simply tell her something like that without any reason to, without even a single question from her beforehand.

“All right. That is... good to know? Nice to meet you?”

The man laughed, or he tried to at least. It started as a hearty laugh but soon changed into a coughing fit. She gripped his shoulders to hold him upright until he calmed down.

“I'm sorry... I'm sorry.”, he said, smiling, “And indeed, it is nice to meet you, lovely girl. I thank you for your help. - And I just wanted you to know... just in case.”

“In case that...?”

“Nothing, dove, nothing. I'd just really like to lie down... Right about now.”

She hardly managed to help him to the old cot before he passed out again. She threw a blanket over him and sat down at his side.

Why had he called her lovely girl? What right did he have to use such a term of endearment? She was furious and charmed at the same time. And she hadn't introduced herself, so it did kind of make sense. But if he didn't know her name, why had he called her dove? She wasn't a girl people usually called dove, even though that was what her name meant. Claissa, the old word only a few people remembered and used, the old language that was completely forgotten outside of the mountains. Why had he called her dove? She looked nothing like the girls the merchants and storytellers described in their tales, the girls that went to balls in white and silver dresses, whose hair was held back by silver strings and golden barrettes. In the stories the women men called dove were tall and thin, had golden hair and blue or green eyes and danced like the doves on white wings in the fresh air of the morning. Claissa was nothing like that. Claissa was small and a bit chubby, had a tendency to fall over her own feet and her hair had the unpleasant shade of muddy dirt. And the colour of her eyes was nearly unidentifiable. There was brown there but also a bit of blue and some green, but most of the time people said her eyes were black and what should have been white in them was red, not completely of course, more as if she constantly cried. She didn't. She was actually a fairly happy woman, although that had changed in the last few weeks.

Her brother had ran away. At first, nobody knew where he was but people talked. People always talked, especially in such a small community as Claissa's village. Jahm didn't want to apprentice as a baker. He wanted to go on an adventure, as he put it, wanted to see the world before he was chained to a profession he hated. People said he became a highwayman or a burglar. People said they always knew that he was a no-good ruffian. And since the tinkerer came to the village four days ago and brought news from the city, people knew that they were right. Jahm was arrested not too long before the tinkerer left the city and he would hang at the end of the month.

Claissa felt tears coming to her eyes and brushed them away angrily with the back of her hand. She shouldn't be angry, she shouldn't be sad. Everybody said this. Everybody told her he brought this onto himself and that there was nothing they could de. Even her parents said this. But there was something. She knew it. The tinkerer had said so. If she had just enough money to buy his freedom. But this was a law made for nobles and rich merchants, not for healer apprentices in a village at the end of the world. It was a law for wealthy people to protect their own. There was no way to get the money, there wasn't enough money in the whole village, not even if everybody gave everything they had and sold all their property. And besides, they weren't willing to do this anyway, because Jahm was a thief and he brought this onto himself. He deserved it. He was a disgrace. If he wouldn't die in few days anyway, their parents would disown him. But in the darkness of the night, her parents cried just as much as she did.

Claissa looked up suddenly at this thought. It was getting dark outside and she hadn't even found half as many mushrooms as she needed for the evening meal. Vallene, her mistress and teacher, the healer of the village, would be angry, especially because she couldn't tell her what she did all afternoon. The villagers called her brother a criminal and a scoundrel who deserved the gallows. What would they do to a stranger who admitted to being a thief? She couldn't allow anybody to know that he was there. She decided to bring him something to eat in the middle of the night and ran back to her village.

*

When he woke up, a different woman sat next to his bed and looked at him with something between sadness and anger.

“She is one of mine”, she said, “not yours.”

The stranger bowed his head, acknowledging her assessment. “That she is. But her brother is one of mine.”

“You won't take her away from me. You won't steal her. You won't...”

He interrupted her: “I won't corrupt her, I promise, sister. But her brother is one of mine and it is his call I'm answering. I just need to borrow her for a while.”

She bowed her head just like he did before. “Be gentle, brother.”, she said, standing up.

“I always am. I don't punish. I only help. We are very much alike.”

She sighed. “Just don't hurt her.”

“I won't.”, he said after a short pause, but by then she was already gone.

*

She found him wide awake and starring into nothing when she returned. She cleared her throat to get his attention but it seemed like he was miles away and listening to someone or something. She sat a bowl of lukewarm stew on the tree trunk and knelt down on the ground.

“You need to eat.”, she said gently.

He still didn't look at her but the longer he sat there upright on the small bed, the more his face seemed to fall. It wasn't the paleness of a sick man. It was more like the pain of a man bearing the weight of the world. But the sooner this thought came to her mind, the sooner this strange complexion was gone from the young face and a smile returned to his lips and he finally looked at Claissa.

“Thank you.”, he said, not showing any indication that he hadn't noticed her before. “I'm sure your cooking is delicious but I am really not hungry. - And maybe I am a bit spoiled too. I'm so used to the feasts in the palace that I...” He stopped himself, seemed to think for a moment and then continued: “The food in the palace is strange. They eat frozen fruit there, as cold as a winter morning on the summit of this mountain, even in the summer. They pay a fortune for gold to put on their food and even more for ice to keep it cold. And at the same time people go hungry through the streets of their cities and get hanged when they take just a small part of this wealth away from them. - But I shouldn't talk about stuff like that. I'm sure you're an upstanding citizen and loyal subject and I don't want to get you into trouble. Talk like that â€" some even think of it as treason. I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry, lovely dove. Your ear is not right for my musings.”

He fell back on the cot as if this little speech had exhausted him. Claissa looked at him confused, again. Why did he ramble about feasts and frozen food? Did he have a fever? He didn't look like it, but she decided to make sure once he had eaten. Him eating was more important than his strange behaviour.

“Eat.”, she said and pushed the bowl closer to him. “You need to eat. Even if you are not hungry, even if you don't want to. You are hurt and exhausted. Believe me, you need to eat.”

He smiled at her and showed some pearly white teeth. It was a lovely smile and made him look at least ten years younger, although she had no idea how old he looked before. It was difficult to tell. Everything about him seemed to be a mystery. She didn't know him long and she certainly didn't know him well but what she did know even after such a short time was that he was very different from every young man she had ever met before. It might just be that he was a stranger and not a boy she knew since her youth. But she was sure there was more to it. She just couldn't put her finger on it. Maybe he was a noble who decided to choose a strange path in his life, a prince even. The storytellers all had stories about princes that left their home for a while and lived as commoners, who fell in love with poor village girls and saved their brothers from a dreadful fate. She shook her head. These were just stories, nothing more, and her stranger was just a thief on the run who had a grudge against nobility. Nothing more, nothing else.

She realised that her mind had wandered and looked back at the strange man who didn't seem to have noticed. As a matter of fact, his whole attention was on the stew she had brought him, which he was eating now with all the rigour of a starving man.

She smiled. Of course he was hungry. He was probably just too polite to accept the food right away. Or he really thought he wasn't hungry until he took the first bite. She had seen something like that from a few patients, usually from children, but it wasn't unheard of of a grown man.

She was glad he ate. It meant he would get his strength back. She wasn't sure why this was so important to her. Maybe because she couldn't save her brother, so she wanted to at least save this other thief. Or maybe she had just heard it so often that the Goddess didn't differentiate between poor man or rich, between old and young, between honest and dishonest, between constable and thief. Vallene still judged, even though she always told her the Helping One, the Goddess of Plants and Healers, did not. Well, Vallene was no Goddess, she wasn't even a priestess, she was just a healer that taught her apprentice to respect and honour the Goddess. And Claissa was sure she was just doing that by helping and hiding a criminal.

When he had finished eating, she felt his forehead. He was cold, colder than usual, but there was no cold sweat there or any other indication that the man was running a fever. It was too dark in the middle of the night to check his leg for an infection and so she decided to leave him be for the rest of the night. He needed sleep just as much as he needed food. Everything else could wait for the next morning. When she looked in his face, she realised that he was actually already asleep again.

*

“Where did you go tonight?”, Vallene screeched the next morning while they were preparing breakfast together. She wasn't a very nice woman, in Claissa's opinion, but she was a very talented healer and it was an honour to be chosen to learn from her.

Claissa hesitated for a moment. She didn't want to tell her about the thief in the old fisherman's hut, even though she knew that most people would think it was the right thing to do. Most people would want a thief arrested, even if he hadn't stolen from them. Claissa didn't think so. Claissa thought that a life was more important than a few valuables.

“I needed to think.”, she lied.

“To think? About what?”

“About... about Jahm.”, she sobbed. This wasn't so much a lie and more of an exaggeration.

Vallene sighed. “He's a thief. Forget him. Forget he ever existed. It's better for everyone.”

“I know. I just... He's still my brother.”

“Of course, dear, but it was his own choice. He brought disgrace onto himself. It is better not to associate with a thief, even your own brother. Even the Gods condemn someone like him.”

Claissa nodded, but she argued nonetheless: “Not all of them. There is still the Silent One.”

“The Silent One is a disgrace to his family, just like your brother is a disgrace to your family. Forget them. Forget both of them. It is better for everyone.”

Claissa nodded again. She didn't agree but she also knew that it was futile to argue any further. Vallene wouldn't change her opinion and neither would anybody else.

*

He had moved the tree trunk to the front of the hut and was sitting with his back to the brittle walls of the old building. His eyes were closed and his head reclined back. He seemed to not have a single care in the world and as if nothing could ever bother him.

“Does this lake freeze over in the winter?”, he asked when he heard her steps coming near.

“No...no, it usually doesn't.”

“Hm, that is good to know.”

He had a tendency to utterly confuse her. “Why do you ask? Why is this good to know? Why aren't you in the hut? Someone could see you!”

“Nobody will see me. Nobody bothers to come here, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Usually not. But still...”

“Don't worry, little dove, don't worry. I'll be all right.”

“You... you are insufferable! I'm trying to help you and you...”

She suddenly felt very angry. This behaviour wasn't normal. He should be nervous, he should be afraid. Instead he asked her cryptic questions and talked about inconsequential things. Why wasn't he worried? Someone had shot him with an arrow. There might be someone hunting him. It was actually likely that someone was on his trail and it was just a matter of days until they stumbled upon her village and then...

“And what will you do then?”, he asked her. Had she spoken aloud without meaning to? “Will you sell me out to the bounty hunters? Take their money and use it to...” He left the sentence hanging.

Use it to bail my brother out, she thought, sacrifice one life to save another? Sent him to his death to get Jahm back? Even as she thought it, even though she knew that this money could be enough, she also knew that she couldn't do it. She couldn't save someone, treat his leg and bring him to a hiding place just to sell him out later. She couldn't do it. She just couldn't do it. She had sworn to protect all life. She prayed to the Goddess, she prayed to the Helping One. There was really no question there.

“No.”, she said, “No, I would never sell you out. I would never take blood money.”

“Not even to save someone else? Not even to save your brother?” Had she thought aloud again? “Not even to save your own life?”

“My life?” She was confused again. Nothing in this conversation made any sense to her. And the longer she looked at the strange man, the stranger he seemed to her.

“Yes, your life?”

“No, not even then.”, she answered not of her own accord. “My life isn't worth more than yours. The Goddess teaches that all life is sacred. There are no questions there.”

“Even the life of someone who betrays another? Even the life of the woman who sold your brother out?”

What was he talking about? “Jahm was betrayed?”

He didn't answer.

“Yes, every life.”, she said after a short pause.

“She is yours, sister, I won't argue. But I'll need her anyway. I'm sure you don't mind if I borrow her for a while.”

Claissa wasn't sure if she actually remembered him saying that. But then she wasn't sure about any part of this conversation. It felt so disconnected; more like a dream than a waking moment. And really, the next thing she knew was that she woke up the next morning in her bed with a serious headache. There was a cloudy memory of her collecting herbs and brewing a draught for the cough of the old carpenter but that could have been an old memory from a few days ago. She just wasn't sure. What she was absolutely certain about was that she had to go to the lake and look after the stranger as soon as possible.

The air got constantly colder the farther she walked. Her breath became mist in front of her mouth. When she reached the old hut and the lake, it was freezing. It was so cold that the lake had frozen over, even though it never did, not even in the coldest winters and it wasn't even winter yet. It was autumn and a warm one at that. What was going on? Was she still dreaming?

*

“Do you think she will figure it out?”, asked the woman from behind him.

“What? That I froze the lake? Or what she is supposed to do with it?”

They stood not far away in the shades of the trees. Claissa didn't see them, didn't know that she was being watched. They were themselves part of the shadows.

“Either. Both. Why did you choose this way? There are other ways to make her receive enough money to save her brother.”

“There are.”

“Why this way? Why like that?”

“Revenge.”

She looked at him then, a frown on her beautiful face. “Revenge? She didn't do anything wrong. She didn't wrong the thief you are protecting.”

“No, she didn't.” He looked as her as well, a hard expression in his mischievous eyes. “But someone else did. You will see, sister, you will see.”

“You promised me to be gentle. You said you don't punish.”

“I am gentle and I don't punish. She will take care of this herself.”

“Who will? Brother?”

But he was already gone. She could follow him. She would follow him. It wasn't difficult for their kind to find each other, but she feared that answers would not be forthcoming. He could talk a lot but he was called silent for a reason.

*

It was cold, so unbelievably cold and the stranger was gone. She didn't understand this. There was no rational explanation for the warmth of the village and the coldness of the lake. There was no reason for the stranger to walk away like that, especially with a wounded leg that probably hurt and could hardly support his weight. There was just no explanation for anything.

Claissa felt like she had walked into a dream again or into one of the fantastical stories some of the visitors told next to a warm fire in the tavern. Only magicians could do something like that but magic was not real. The only people who had skills close to magic were priests but she doubted a priest could be so powerful. They had certain skills, sure, like precognition or the ability to tell if someone was lying. This was apparently a skill priests of the Seeing One possessed, though she always thought it would make more sense for priests of the Silent One to do this, who was the God of Thieves and Liars after all. But what man had the power to freeze the lake? The answer was simple and frightening: Only a God, only a God could do this. But why? Why? There was no reason. And if this was a God's work then this lake had become sacred and she should run away from it really fast. But this didn't feel right. Nothing felt right, nothing but the words of a stranger in the woods. They eat frozen fruit there. They pay a fortune for ice to keep it cold. - Does this lake freeze over in the winter? No, no it didn't. Could it be? Could it really be? Had a God come to help her? He had asked about her brother, he had told her he was a thief â€" a thief like her brother. It couldn't be. It was impossible. It was an insane thought, but it was still there.

She ran back to the village as fast as she could. She needed a saw, she needed a cart and she needed to keep quiet. Nobody would believe her. Nobody would help her. She prayed to the stranger that all was not a dream and begged him that he wasn't just playing with her.

*

In a damp cell a God smiled. He would have to properly apologise to his sister later for stealing one of her own but right now he needed her. And he had told her that he was just borrowing her. A single prayer to him didn't make her his own. He would give her back when it was time.

The young man on the cold, wet ground had cried a lot in the last week and prayed even more. He couldn't see the stranger standing in his cell and neither could he feel his protection. But he had called to the Silent One and the God listened. Soon the little dove would fly down from the mountain and free the young man and then they would go to Remria together where he needed them.

He had planted the idea in his mind a few days ago while he pretended to be a prisoner in the opposite cell. “Remria is a big city”, he had said, “a rich and powerful one. Nobody will find a thief there.” No-one but the one he wanted to find them. It was a plan that was in the works for a long time, though he only knew of one person who absolutely needed to be there. But he would send as much help as possible. As long as the others did not realise what he was actually doing, as long as his manipulations weren't too direct, it could actually work. He was the God of Thieves, but this time the little dove, the healer was more important to him. That he also helped a thief and took revenge on the one who betrayed this thief didn't hurt either.

“Why did she do this?”, the boy sobbed, “I trusted her. Why did she do this?”

The God brushed the dirty hair out of the boys face, though all he felt was a little breeze and a chill. “Soon.”, he whispered, though the boy could not hear it, “Soon your sister will be here and the traitor will be dead. Soon, little one, soon.”

“I asked her for help. She should have helped. She prays to the Helping One. Why did she do this? Why? - Why did she lie to me?”

“Hush, little one. She'll be dead soon and you will live. Everything will be all right, little one.”

Jahm's leg hurt. An arrow had struck him there as he ran away and climbed over the city walls. He couldn't remember where he was going or how he even managed to keep on going. It hurt so much. But instinctively he chose the direction of their village in the mountains. There was no big road that led there, only a small path, and it was in the middle of a forest where the path diverged from the main road. Maybe they wouldn't see this path, maybe they didn't know to look for him there. He was so stupid. He had run away from home to have an adventure and he had stolen â€" just an apple, a single apple. It was stupid. He wasn't a thief. He was a baker's apprentice but now he prayed to the God of Thieves, because no other God would help him after what he had done. All priests said this, although he hadn't met many of them. There was no temple of any God in their small village and itinerant preachers walked seldom up into the mountains either. But he knew the stories. Everyone knew them. His parents had told them when he was a small child and the storytellers that sometimes stayed a few days in the simple tavern in their village always told at least one religious story. He couldn't expect any help from the other Gods.

But when he stumbled on the camp of their village healer, who always preached that a worshipper of the Helping One, the Goddess of Plants and Healers, should help everyone, he thought he was saved. She was on her way back from town, where she had sold some of her ointments and bought herbs she couldn't find in the forest near their village. His sister was not with her. Claissa stayed in the village when the healer was gone and treated the sick. But Vallene would surly help him. He didn't doubt it for a second.

“She promised me to help me. She promised.”, the boy sobbed. “Why didn't she? Why did she bring me back to town? Why?”

“She lied, little one, she lied.”, answered the God, though the boy could not hear him.

“She lied and you are angry at her.”, said the Goddess out of the shadows. She didn't surprise her brother. They could never surprise each other. “Why are you angry? Shouldn't you be proud of her? You are the God of Liars too, not just Thieves.”

The man looked up through his shaggy hair and sighed. It was sometimes a real pain to make his siblings understand him and his decisions. They didn't look at the world enough, he was sure. They didn't see what he saw.

“No. No, I really shouldn't. Besides, she is one of yours, not mine. Or, at least she was.”

“That she was. And a good one. She taught all the right things. Why are you so angry?”

“She taught one thing and acted another.”

“So you took her for yourself.” The Goddess put her white hand on her brother shoulder.

He shook her off. “I don't want her. She's not useful.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I'll let her die.”

“What? Why would you do this? You don't go after everyone who gets one of your thieves arrested. What is different here?”

But the Silent One did not answer. He had already disappeared and left his sister alone in the cell with the desperate boy. She knelt down next to him like her brother had done before. She looked at his wounded leg.

“At least Claissa is really one of mine. Maybe she is even in time to save you from the gallows and from the infection, child. But I fear she might be too late to save your leg.”

Of course Jahm didn't hear her either. His aimless questions had no meaning to them any more. He wasn't actually thinking about his arrest any longer. He was just repeating the same questions over and over again.

Even though he didn't belong to her, she still wanted to help him, because this was where her heart lay. But they had agreed a long time ago to limit their meddling in the affairs of men. They gave powers to their priests but nothing else. Their brother, the Seeing One, wouldn't like it if she healed the boy. Only the Silent One dared break the rules from time to time, or at least circumvent them. But his manipulations were just that: manipulations that worked towards some kind of goal farther in the future. He had frozen a lake and gave hints to Claissa. It was probably enough. It was probably enough to save the boy, but it wasn't the target her brother was really aiming for. Unfortunately, she had no idea what was. She just hoped he would give back what was hers once he was done. She sighed and disappeared.

*

[Sinitrena]

Claissa sneaked into the village. She didn't even think about it. She just decided it was better to be secretive. Vallene owned a handcart that one woman was able to pull across the dirt path to the city, although she knew that it would be a lot heavier laden with blocks of ice instead of herbs and ointments. She wasn't sure she could do it. But she had to. There was nobody else who would do it, nobody she could ask for help. Not even her parents would be willing to do something so strange. She wasn't even sure people would really buy frozen water. Maybe the stranger was just pulling her leg. How could she be sure? She couldn't even tell if the ice wouldn't melt on the way down. It was a crazy idea. But it also was the only sliver of hope she had.

She took a saw from her father's shed and the cart of her teacher. It wasn't a difficult task to stay unseen. Most villagers were still working on the fields for the autumn harvest. The person most likely to see her was Vallene and Claissa tried to figure out where the older woman was, but saw her nowhere. She sighed a breath of relief she hadn't realised she was holding and made her way back to the lake.

How do you cut ice? She had no idea. She had assumed that something sharp would be necessary but that was as far as she had thought. And besides, even if she knew the proper technique, she was still a young and short woman. The longer she thought about it, the crazier it seemed. But she wouldn't stop, she just couldn't. It was the only hope.

And so she began. First she tried to saw through the surface of the ice but it was slippery and cold. Again and again the saw slid off and again and again she began anew.

But it just didn't work like that. She fell on the cold grass exhausted and frustrated. She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping for some divine inspiration. After all, she believed that a God had frozen the lake for her. Was it too much to hope for one additional hint? Apparently it was, for no vision and no dream came to her. But she knew it was possible. She knew it. She believed in her idea. She simply believed. I just need one point to start sawing. Just one point where the saw does not slip away.

In the end, she thought the solution was easy and she was stupid. She broke a hole in the surface with a heavy stone and started to saw from there. It was tedious work but it was manageable. Still, she had no idea how she did it. She was exhausted and cold when she had finally cut out some pieces of ice and pulled them to the shore with the help of a hook and some thick rope she had found in the fisherman's hut. It seemed like an impossible task that only her will made possible, not her muscle.

It was beyond dark by this time and the forest was eerily quiet. The forest was seldom completely quiet. Owls howled in the night and cats prowled through the undergrowth. But this night was different. Or this place. There was absolutely no noise but her breathing  and the silent creaking of the broken ice. It was a night in which Claissa actually began to believe in ghosts again. That she sat next to a frozen lake in a clearing that felt like a magic place and was probably created by a God didn't help. She shuddered. If it was from the cold or the atmosphere she couldn't tell but the woods certainly felt like danger all of a sudden. She listened carefully for every noise, winced at every breeze and just wanted to run away. She wanted to run as far and as fast as she could, leave the still unladen cart and the ice behind, forget all about this lake and the stranger, forget the money she might earn and the brother she wanted to free.

She startled. There was someone there, someone close by. She just knew it, she felt it, though she wasn't sure what gave her this thought. Maybe she had heard a brittle branch break under a heavy foot. She couldn't tell and part of her didn't want to know.

“What are you doing here?”, Vallene screeched from the shadows.

Claissa turned around suddenly. “N...nothing.”, she stuttered. She hadn't done anything wrong. Why was she afraid?

“You took my cart without my permission. And what is this place anyway?”

It was too dark to properly see. Maybe the old woman didn't recognise the lake or the different temperature confused her.

“I'm just borrowing it. I'll just need it for a few days.”, Claissa said.

“And for what? What do you need my cart for, silly girl?”

She often called her silly girl, usually when she was asking too many questions.

“I have to go to town for a few days.”

“To help your brother?”

“Yes.”

“You don't have enough money and he isn't welcome here any more anyway.”

“It doesn't matter. I have to try.”

“Silly girl.”, she said again, shaking her head. “And where do you get the money from?  Have you found a treasure here?”

“Some...something like that.” She realised that Vallene wasn't able to see the lake in the darkness and probably wouldn't have understood what she was doing either. She still wasn't sure why she didn't tell her, maybe because she thought herself that it was a stupid idea and just didn't want to be called silly again.

In the end, the older woman shook her head again and walked away. Claissa breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe she really had found a treasure, maybe the ice was really worth its weight in gold. Maybe she would have enough to safe her brother. She smiled. There was hope. She  had hope â€" and that Vallene hadn't actually tried to stop her gave her new strength.

It took the whole night to haul the ice up on the cart and as before she wasn't really sure how she did it. There's strength in desperation, her grandmother had always told her and that there's hope in the bleakest of times. Her mother usually added to this second one that they called her Claissa because the dove was the symbol of hope. She never asked why they needed hope when she was born, but she always took pride in the name.

Claissa fell asleep in the hut where some days before a God had slept.

*

In the evening, when Vallene came back to the lake, Claissa was already a third of the way to the city. The old woman had felt the cold in the night before but she wasn't able to see what was causing it. Now she came back to investigate.

She always knew that Claissa and her brother were no-good. She had hoped to bring the girl on the right path but apparently she hadn't succeeded. It was better for the whole village when both of them were gone. She had told the mayor that strangers were a risk for everyone when the sibling's grandfather had asked for the right to built his house there. Nowadays nearly everybody had forgotten that the family didn't belong to the village but Vallene remembered. It was worth the cart if it meant that the girl wouldn't come back. Vallene just needed to figure out what Claissa had found near the lake. Maybe the old hut had become a hideout for robbers. She should have paid closer attention to this place and not sent the girl alone out into the forest to look for herbs.

When she reached the clearing it was cold, colder than she thought possible, and the lake was frozen over. Something wasn't right here.

“Magic!”, she spat and stormed up to the lake as fast as it was possible with her old and tired legs.

She needed to find out what was going on here. She walked over the frozen surface to the middle of the lake and the ice melted. Vallene fell through the thin ice, into cold water and eternal darkness.

“What are you doing?”, asked the Goddess her watching brother.

“Taking back what I have given. The little dove took the ice. She doesn't need a frozen lake any more.”

“And you're doing this now, while she's standing on the ice?”

“Now I found the time to do it. I had other things to do.”

“She doesn't know how to swim, does she?”

“I doubt it.”

“You're killing her!”

He looked at her. “I'm letting her die. There's a difference.”

“Brother!”

“What? I didn't break any rules!”

“But you could have taken your powers away at a different time!”

“As I said: I was busy.”

“You were lying!”

“That I was, too. I still haven't broken a rule. - You can try to help her if you want. But freezing the lake again probably wouldn't do any good. And besides, I think everything you could do would count as a direct interference.”

“Sometimes I hate you, brother. You took one of mine.”

“She wasn't one of yours any more and I doubt she would make you proud. But I admit, I did take one of yours.”

“Claissa?”

He looked at her and grinned, though it wasn't one of his happy grins. “The little dove stole the cart. I could claim her as one of mine.”

“So you did steal her. You promised me...”

“I promised.”, he interrupted. “Don't worry, I won't break my promise. I only borrow her for a while until her brother's free. Then you can have her back. But I might need her again some day.”

“I hate you, brother, you and your plans. But what I really hate is that you are the only one to know how to circumvent our brother's rules. I hate that you are more hope than anybody else and certainly better than our brother.”

“So you don't mind I'll keep her for a while?”

“Do what you must.”

The God watched the old woman drown alone.

*

The town was rather small but for her it was the biggest place she had ever seen. There were people everywhere, shouting and running and selling things she had never seen before. It was busy and it stank. The road was muddy and difficult to navigate, the dresses were in a variety of colours she hadn't thought possible â€" not because she didn't know that you could dye a piece of cloth in nearly every colour but because she thought of this as impractical. Clothes got dirty, that was the way it was. It didn't seem particularly useful to wear colours that showed every stain.

She shook her head. This wasn't important. She needed to sell the ice before it melted. She wasn't sure why it hadn't melted on the way down from the mountain. Did it take this long for ice to melt or was there even more divine power involved? She shuddered. She was thankful for the help she had received but she still felt uncomfortable at the thought that she might have talked to a God. It was all so unreal.

And that was true for the town too. The town felt unreal too. She had heard descriptions of it, and stories of cities far bigger than that but hearing is one thing and seeing another.

Where do you go to sell ice? The stranger had said that nobles needed it. But where should she go?

“Excuse me?”, she asked no-one in particular and received no answer.

Slowly she made her way through the crowd to the middle of town where the market place was located. There was a temple to the left of her and a tavern to the right. In the middle of the place was a platform and the gallows on top. On this platform stood a man flanked by two guards who brandished a bell.

“Listen people! Listen everyone!”, he shouted over the noise of the people haggling and cursing. “The king is dead! The king is dead! His majesty died in the early hours of the sixteenth of last month. His son, his majesty prince Kaltim Zarite of Castle Rem has ordered a period of mourning of three months. Afterwards he will be crowned the new king. Listen people! Listen everyone!” He repeated his speech.

The king was dead. It didn't mean anything to Claissa. Kings lived somewhere away in big castles. As far as she knew, the noble this part of the world belonged to was a count, but even he had always been someone living far away who had no connection to her daily life. But now she needed to find him. She just hoped a period of mourning  didn't mean they wouldn't need her ice. But maybe they needed even more for the coronation later? She just had no idea. This was all so strange to her.

While she was musing over kings and ice, another man had come on the platform and was proclaiming a different set of news. But while the first man sounded exited and important, this second man sounded bored: “The following thieves will be hanged at the end of the month: Jahm Moneh, from a small nameless village in the mountains; Araton Belldip, called The Hand; Deren Calim, no other information available. Should someone wish to bail either of them out: The price is ten gold pieces for The Hand, five each for the other two.”

Claissa doubted anyone but her heard this announcement, she doubted anyone but her was interested in it or cared about the three man that would die in less than a week. She felt tears coming to her eyes. It was so unfair. Jahm wasn't a bad guy. He was still a child! He was supposed to start his apprenticeship and now they were going to kill him. With new resolution in her heart she stormed up to the man, who had read the names of the condemned.

“Excuse me? Sorry! Sir?”, she called and the man stopped and looked at her.

He was an older man with greying hair and a big belly who wore some kind of uniform and a sword at his side, but Claissa hardly paid attention to this.

“Yes? What is it?”

“I want to buy my brother's freedom.”

“And who's your brother?”

“Jahm.”

“Jahm Moneh? That'll be five gold, then.”

“I...”, she hesitated, “I don't have the money. Not just yet.”

He looked at her and laughed. “Come back when you do.”

He was about to walk away but she stopped him: “Please wait. I'll get the money, I promise. I just need to find someone to buy this ice...”

“Ice? Who buys ice? It just melts. Nobody needs ice.” He was shaking his head.

“Please.”, she begged, “please just point me to the count. I think he will buy it.”

“The count, girl? You can't just walk up to a nobleman and sell him ice. But if you want to make even more of a fool out of yourself: The counts castle is in this direction.” He pointed to the opposite side of town from where she had come. “Part of his walls are also the city's walls. You can't miss it.” With that he walked away, still shaking his head. Who bought ice? He had never heard of this, but then, he didn't have anything to do with the people in the castle. He was just a town guard, after all.

Claissa took the handle of her cart and kept on walking. She had come too far for him to dishearten her now. Maybe they would laugh at her, but at least she had tried.

Although she recognised the castle immediately, it looked nothing like she had imagined it. There were no tall towers with pitched roofs, no elaborate gardens were flowers stood in file at attention, no lovely ladies with embroidered dresses. There was one tower and a high wall, an iron gate and a man with a halberd in the guardhouse. Other than that the place didn't seem so special to her. Big, yes, but hardly richer or nobler than the rest of the town. Though the town itself seemed big and rich compared to her small village, the step up from the town to the castle wasn't significant. She felt disappointed and unsure of herself. Maybe the stranger had talked about festivals in the capital. Maybe she still had a far way to go. How far away was Remria anyway? She had no idea. A few days ago her world had ended somewhere in the middle of the forest around her village and the town was a place she would maybe one day visit with Vallene to sell herbs.

There was no point in turning back now. The guard looked up at her as she approached. As soon as he realised that she was probably some poor peasant a disapproving frown appeared on his face.

“Yes?”, he asked harshly.

“I.. I'd like to talk to...” She interrupted herself. She had no idea whom to talk to. “I have ice to sell.”, she said lamely.

“A bit early for this, isn't it?”

Her face immediately lightened up and she hardly heard the scorn in his voice. He had heard of ice being sold. He knew what she was talking about! There was hope! She wasn't crazy!

Instead of answering him, Claissa pulled the old blanket she had thrown over the ice away from the cart. The guard shook his head.

“Wait here.”, he said and sent a boy running back to the main house.

It seemed like an unbearably long time before someone came back to the gate. She was getting nervous and impatient, though she had no idea why. There was still time left to save her brother, the ice hadn't melted by now and so it was unlikely that it would melt in the next few hours and she apparently had reached the right person to sell her ice. It just didn't make sense for her to be nervous now, but she was getting used to things not making sense.

The man who met her after what felt like hours was a burly man with a large moustache, wearing silk and golden rings.

“What is this about a girl selling ice in the autumn?”, he asked the guard. “You should be able to tell that this is impossible. Why are you wasting my time with a fool like that?”

The guard just pointed at the cart. The steward inspected Claissa's wares with critical eyes. He had no idea how a girl had managed to bring ice to the castle in such a warm autumn, but the evidence was right there in front of him. And they needed ice. Someone had left the ice cellar open a few days ago and they lost a lot of ice. He still hadn't figured out who had done this. He still didn't know whom to punish, though witnesses later described a young man with shaggy dark hair and a mischievous smile near the cellar. Unfortunately, nobody working in the castle matched the description. He shook his head. They needed the ice. Everything else was secondary.

“How much for it?”, he asked the girl.

“I... I don't know.” It wasn't a good answer and she knew that as soon as the words left her mouth. You never say that you don't know the worth of your goods. People only used this to pay less.

“All right. How about one gold for the whole cart?”

One gold? She needed five! Was it all for nothing?

“Six.”, she said.

“No, no, definitely not. I can give you two, but that's it. Sorry.”

“Let's say five at least.”

“No, two and a half is all I can give you.”

“Please, four, and I'll need the cart back.” Maybe she could sell the cart. Maybe she had time to collect some herbs in the woods and sell them too. Four might just be enough.

The steward was shaking his head. As a matter of fact, even six gold pieces would be a good price, but he was paying for something he didn't want to buy but needed. The count was angry at him anyway because he apparently didn't manage to control his people, so he at least wanted to tell his lord that he hadn't wasted any more money.

“Hm.”, he said. “Can you bring more?” A cart full of ice wasn't enough to restock. They would need more later and the girls wares were cheap.

“Yes.”, she said and wasn't sure if she was lying. And even if she could bring more she probably wouldn't do it. There was no time to go all the way up the mountain and back down again. She needed the money now.

“You do that and I'll give you six for two carts.”, he offered.

“Four now.”, she countered, “The other two when I come back.”

“Agreed.”, he said. It wasn't perfect, but it was good enough for him.

Claissa didn't pay attention to the men unloading her cart or anything else, really. Four gold pieces. She could work with four. She was basically cheating him but she hardly noticed that either. She was just glad she had a chance to save her brother.

The steward was paying her in silver coins, counting them out to her painstakingly slow and accurate. She noticed that he became distracted after a while, looking over to the men unloading her cart. She looked herself and noticed nothing special at first. But then she saw him too: Among the men was a familiar face, the face of a stranger who could hardly walk a few days ago and still managed to freeze a lake, the face of a God. He smiled at her, winked and mouthed: “Good luck, little dove.”

At this exact moment, the steward shoved the money at her. “Here's your money. Thank you, goodbye.”

She took the silver and the handle of her cart and nearly ran away, but decided to walk slowly in the last moment. Behind her, the steward motioned for the guards to arrest a dark-haired stranger. Shouts rang out as the man ran, but Claissa didn't turn around. It could be suspicious. She just knew it would look suspicious if she paid too much attention to what was going on there. Besides, she had no doubts that the stranger would be able to escape. She didn't know what exactly he was doing, but she was sure he would be all right. After all, who could catch the God of Thieves and Liars?

Once outside the gate, she sat down on her cart and counted her money, just to be sure. Six, there were six gold. They had agreed on four. She counted again and again but she wasn't mistaken. There were six gold, there was enough to save her brother and she would even keep a profit. But how? It wasn't difficult to figure out. The steward was distracted, distracted by the God of Thieves! She sent a prayer to the Silent One.

*

“Why did you go yourself?”, his sister asked.

“Lomin was busy, changing a law for me.” They sat on a fallen tree next to the road, watching Claissa pulling a cart out of the city.

“Who's Lomin and what law?”

“Lomin is my priest.”

“You have more than one priest.” Claissa had stopped the cart a few miles from the city. She examined her brothers leg. It was infected and hot. Jahm wasn't well, but he was alive

“No-one like Lomin. - And he might need the help of Claissa one day.”

“So you stole him help. You stole her away from me to give as a present to your pet-priest.”

He looked away from the siblings and at the Goddess. “I once stole the world, sister.”

She sighed. “Where are they going?”, she asked. “They won't go back, will they?”

“I planted the idea in his head to go to Remria, of course.”

“Of course.”

They stayed silent for a moment, watching Claissa come to a difficult decision. Then he said: “She is still yours, you know. She's still a healer. She's just more likely to help one of mine when the time comes.”

“You don't care about the boy at all, do you? It was all about her?”

“Of course.”

The Goddess sighed again but said nothing else. Together they saw Claissa take the saw from the cart. With tears in her eyes she used the same saw that was used to get ice out of a sacred lake to cut her brothers leg off to save his life.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Notes: Ice cutting is real, though it wasn't done by a woman alone, of course (There's a God involved here, so it is possible ). According to wikipedia, the first ice houses (or ice cellars (german wiki entry for some additional pictures)) existed arround 1500BC, but ice trade became an actual industry in the 19th century.

This story is set in the same world as two other stories I posted before: Truth! and The social, friendly, honest man. Chronologically, Little Dove is the first story and knowledge of the other two is not necessary to understand it, though some characters are mentioned here that come from the other stories and some things hinted at here are from a third one I haven't finished writing yet. The idea for Little Dove, though, came only after I read the topic of this competition. 

[Baron]

YAY SINITRENA!

  I've also got a few more YAYs saved up for other potential entrants, so get those stories in before the deadline two days hence!

Unfortunately, I'm moving in about a week so I don't have the time to submit something worthy.

That's still four days away!  Just write something! 

[Ponch]

I might need an extension! I've been tripping balls all week on pain killers!

[Baron]

Dude, that's the perfect time to write some crazy weird stuff!   I'll extend if you don't meet the deadline.

[Baron]

For Ponch, as well as the silent masses yearning to contribute to this competition but who are too shy to admit it, I am extending the deadline by four days.  Enjoy the long weekend, and don't forget to get some writing done!

[Fitz]

Encouraged by the deadline extension -- and struck by wild inspiration -- I concocted this primeval story of how (and why!) humanity adopted clothing. The idea originated from this:



The inventor didn't monetize on their invention -- because money hadn't been invented yet. Also, as it often happens, the name behind the idea fades into obscurity. Which doesn't belittle their achievement one bit!

FAIR WARNING: The story revolves around human reproductive behaviors -- and contains references to seduction, violence, coitus and marital infidelity. No graphic descriptions thereof. I've decided to save my inner E.L.James for novels that I shall write under a pseudonym in the effort to monetize on the trend

Aaaanyway, here is...

LinGRRRRie

by Fitz

A woman crouched naked in a puddle of clotted blood. It covered half her face and her arms -- all the way up to her elbows. Her teeth were pink with the foam of saliva and gore. But her eyes remained gray and lifeless, as she half-heartedly suckled on a broken-off piece of a bone. Her tongue probed her teeth in the desperate search of some stray chunk of meat -- alas, to no avail. She'd already picked out and chowed down on every last morsel of flesh -- what little of it others have left her. Small, useless bones and lesser organs -- equally disgusting to the eyes, the nose and then the tongue. Almost impossible to chew through. She was almost grateful there wasn't much of it. At the very least, she stopped dreaming of anything more. Better chunks were reserved for the more worthy. The chief got the heart. The shaman was treated to the gray pudding of the brain, served in a skullcap -- which, having no teeth to chew it with, he drank through a hollow bone. The hunters feasted on the legs and breasts. The pregnant women ate the rump. The little ones were fed the tongue. They took turns at the dining circle, the meals stretching out over the afternoon and well into the evening. All the while, she sat nearby and watched and listened -- and never dared to move in until all of them were done: the chief, the shaman, the hunters, the women, the babes...
She rocked back and forth on her heels, diligently licking and suckling her bloodied fingers clean -- pondering on her misery. She was the last in the pecking order; the single lowliest member of her tribe -- with no ties to anyone else. No one to call a friend. No family. None that would admit it, at least. No offspring of her own, either -- for no man would ever look at her. Oh, beauty was not in abundance in her tribe -- or any other she knew. There was plenty of gap-toothed, shaggy, dag-haired hunchbacks -- with crooked legs and assymmetrical breasts. Still, most found men indifferent or desperate enough to impregnate them at some point. Degenerate beta-males that would pounce on anything that moves.
Well, with one exception, maybe: her...
Hubba-Hubba was not merely an ugly woman. Not just the ghastliest human being. She was the oddest creature alive -- more bizarre by the hour, as her malnourished body withered and cracked. Her very sight made children cry -- and more than once killed a faint-hearted little bird. No predator would eat her. Not lions, not tigers. Not even hyenas! Fire itself -- which is not famous for its refined taste -- scorned her when the tribe decided to burn her at stake (the shaman actually invented human sacrifice with her in mind!). The sun has never seen anything like her. The sea -- the depths of which gave birth to most unsightly beasties -- would retreat in horror if she ever came near it. And so she led a life of a bottom feeder. The timid roach, living off of scraps scorned by everyone else -- and retreating back into the shadows as soon as she was done. The silent toad, shying away from any form of attention -- for ridicule was frequent, and violence was a close second. If she ever experienced anything close to pity, it was utter indifference. Affection, in any case, was not for the likes of her (and if you ever called her anyone's equal -- they'd crack your skull open with the nearest available heavy object and spit inside).
Her nakedness exposed every flaw in her crooked body -- only adding to her general misery. Nudity, mind you, wasn't an outcome of rejection and poverty. It wasn't her stigma.  It was merely a sign of times. Times long ago -- when the sun shone brighter and man was too dim to feel shame. Everyone walked through life the way they came into it: naked. With only single tufts of hair here and there -- looking less like an actual evolutionary strategy and more of a cruel joke -- they ran around bare-assed, curious bits dangling and bouncing with every move. Even more curiously, they'd take pride in those protruding organs: the bigger and more uncomfortable the better! Mammary glands seemed to be of special significance. A pair of big, round honka honkas guaranteed its proud owner a chance at reproduction. It is noteworthy that roundness seemed secondary to size -- and symmetry came third. In any case, curves were the point of interest -- not only in breats, but hips alike. The wider, the better!
The bottom line was: size mattered -- but the actuality of it was more nuanced...
Hubba Hubba had it all. Huge breasts. Wide hips. It seemed, however, that there's a certain threshold, beyond which whatever was good in moderate amounts begins to seem like too much. She was the embodiment of excess. Her breasts grew so big that they were more cylindrical than they were round. Instead of bouncing within an average man's line of sight, they dangled around her ankles. Her hips were so wide -- and her uterus so big -- you could use it as a mastodon trap. It had its own echo, even! And so, men avoided Hubba Hubba, whether out of disgust -- or fear. Men who -- during the weeks of hunting away from their women -- wouldn't scorn a goat! Or a turtle! She looked at what little, was left of the boar -- and it was with grim jealousy, because even the puddle of blood and scraps of hide looked better than her.
And then she got an idea...

***

"Hubba Hubba...", a raspy voice right behind her called her name.
She'd never heard it uttered in such a way before -- not that they call her by her name much in all her life. In any case, there was no jeering it it. No aggression. It was heavy, deep and resounding... The sounds rolled off the tongue lazily, carried by a slow stream of warm air. She froze, startled by the newness of the experience -- and then flushed from head to toe as the airwaves caressed her skin, raising the hair on her arms.
Then came a sharp pang of pain.
A forcefull blow to the back of her head knocked her over -- but not out. She fell to the ground, but remained conscious -- if only to savor the experience. The hand tugging at her hair, dragging her body through gravel. Sharp rocks dug into her skin, scratching and drawing blood -- but stunned as she was by the blow, and further sedated by the sheer joy, she felt nothing. Nothing but happiness!
The dream was coming true!
The man -- one of the hunters -- brought her to the cozy retreat of a small cave, where without further ado he proceeded to do what nature intended. He performed his duty of ensuring the continuity of the species -- with a wild passion! Most men are driven by instinct: a crude response to simple, subliminal stimuli, resulting in purely mechanical routines. He, however, enjoyed the act -- and carried out his part in it with enthusiasm. He kept repeating her name, over and over again.
Even after he kicked her out of the cave (another involuntary impulse imprinted by nature) he hummed to himself: Hubba Hubba...

***

"Hubba Hubba...", murmured the chief.
She lost count of her suitors already -- but still found this new situation too much to take in. It was astounding. Men wanted her! Not just the sleazy betas. The hunters! Veteran warriors! The chief himself shunned his wives and focused all efforts on her. Repeated efforts -- and quite frequent, at that! They couldn't resist her. They, the strongest of men! And yet all the while, none of them ever looked her in the eye.
Nor did they ever so much as try to undress her.
She was the dream -- and what you need to know about dreams is that they're a delicate thing. It doesn't take much for them to just fade away. Poof! Snap! Her clothing was what kept it all together -- metaphorically and literally. One strap of boar hide held her breasts, bringing the incredible bulk up and pressing them together, and the other -- wrapped tight around her waist -- gave her hips a nice curvature.
These two improvised pieces of garment suspended the disbelief.
Her breasts were unbelievable -- big and round and perky. Her bottom -- incredible. Or so it seemed, at least. Inside, under the rough piece of fur, the pelvis was crushed and the leg joints -- deformed. That strap of boar hide was all that held them together. But seeing is believing -- and ignorance is bliss -- so none of the lovers dared to peek past the appearances, just as they avoided looking her in the face (which no amount of boar hide could help).
The picture was perfect as long as you squinted or looked only with the corner of your eye.

***

While men to chose to do just that -- there was a group that couldn't look the other way: the other women. The shunned wives and scorned lovers. Mothers of their children -- hungry and angry. Famine (brought about by the men channelling all their energy and efforts in one particular direction) and wrath clouded their judgement -- and so their first instinct was to kill the man-thief. All assassination attempts fell flat, however -- as there was an army of men guarding Hubba Hubba day and night as they waited in line for their turn. So the women gave up -- and went out to gather roots and hunt for small game.
And that's how they got to the root of the problem:
It wasn't Hubba Hubba that men desired. It wasn't even her body. Not all of it, at least. It was just two strategic regions, wrapped tightly in fur. That's all it took to break families and holy vows. Two pieces of hairy animal skin! That's all they needed to get their husbands, fiances and boyfriends back. So they took their men's spears and went hunting...
--and lost all equipment when they accidentally ambushed a rhino...
Through trial and error -- including gruesome mutilations, friendly fire and fatalities -- with bare hands, rocks and simple traps, they managed to catch a few small, sickly rodents. Ferrets. Bunnies. Chinchillas. Guinea pigs. They skinned the wretched furry critters -- and from their hides they fashioned impromptu bras and skirts, much like those made by Hubba Hubba. Only skimpier and more revealing. Their breasts weren't nearly as perky as hers -- nor were their hips as wide and curvaceous.
But it was more than enough.
The men pounced at their women like a horde of starved fleas. Stuck in the mile-long queue for days on end -- their ultimate goal by now a half-goddess, half-myth -- they had steam coming out their ears and were happy to let it off. And so, the line of suitors grew shorter and shorter -- until the last one was gone, lured by his wife's sexy ferret panties. There was no man murming to himself:
"Hubba Hubba..."
And for that Hubba Hubba was thankful...

***

Her new life was over -- and she left it behind her with no regret whatsoever. She got up and -- on legs still numb -- she walked away. She headed for her usual spot, in the shade of an ugly, thunderstruck tree -- and then went past it, out into a world unknown. To find a new place to live; to lead a humble, simple life again. She unstrapped the boar hide from her breasts and her waist -- and threw both away.
She was free aga--
"Hubba Hubba!"
Even though she shunned her bra and skirt, her breasts remained perky and her hips stayed curvy. As if by magic, her body retained its perfect shape. Unfortunately, said magic attracted the resident man of miracles: the old shaman. The old, ooold, wrinkled, ugly, smelly, toothless, boney shaman, whom no other woman wanted. So he took the one last chance he had.
That day in just a few seconds he learned from Hubba Hubba two things that hindu monks would spend their whole lives mastering, tens of thousands years later: the art of levitation and retracting one's genitalia.

***

Hubba Hubba took a sharp rock and sliced the slain cheetah open. She ripped its heart out and ate it, then its liver and kidneys -- the way the highest ranking tribesmen do. She was now her own tribe. The chief. The hunter. The woman. She drank the wild cat's blood and sucked all the marrow out of its bones. Then she skinned it -- leaving the rest of the meat to her fellow creatures of nature. All she took with herself was the skin -- the spotted yellow fur.
She dried it -- and put it on.
Small and slender as the animal was, she barely fit in. It was skin-tight around her arms and legs, and it tore down the torso -- all the way down to the navel -- unable to contain her wild breasts. But it was all she ever wanted. Now, disguised as a deadly predator, she walked on, proudly, knowing that no one would ever distu--
"Mrrrawr!"

***

Like many female enterpreneurs, Hubba Hubba never received due credit for the invention of pigini (which -- to add insult to injury -- was misspelled as "bikini") and cheetard (an invention stolen by one Leo Tard). But even to this day her name is summoned every day -- as the patron saint of attraction -- by men across the globe.
Another forgotten enterpreneur that this story wishes to remind you of is the inventor of catcalls -- a certain old, unyielding shaman.

[Baron]

Nice!  And I'm not just talking about the pictures!  

There are still about 24 hours to contribute, if you're interested (*cough* Ponch *cough*).

[Baron]

It is with a heavy heart that I hereby close the competition with only two entries.  For your consideration, we have:

Sinitrena with Little Dove
Fitz with LinGRRRRie

As usual we will vote by categories.  You can vote up to twice per category (but no more than twice!), on condition that your total votes do not balance perfectly (ie there must be at least a slight winner!).  The categories are:

Best Character: You find one or several characters extra believable/captivating/magnetic/unique, etc.
Best Plot: The story arc was well-organized, coherent, and well-executed with appropriate pacing; basically the best story.
Best Atmosphere: This is all about feeling: did the story evoke strong feelings due to excitement/humour/intrigue/wonder/emotional intensity?
Best Setting: The best background world or milieu for a story; a place brought to life.
Best Word Choice/Style: The technical art of combining words in clever or gripping ways.
Cleverest Business Idea of Yore: Given the parameters of the world created by the author, in which idea would you invest your precious gold pieces?

Voting will be open until midnight April 25, by which time I should be able to cobble together some trophies.  Enjoy the stories, and good luck to both participants!

[Sinitrena]

I can't exactly decide between different entries, because there is only one entry except of mine and we traditionally don't vote for ourselves here, so all my votes go to Fitz, obviously. Let's see if they are actually deserved...

Best Character: Fitz - I like Hubba Hubba, and feel a bit sorry for her. Can't be easy for a woman nobody likes in a time like that. But she's clever and uses her cleverness to compensate for her other problems, basically a strong femal character that uses what is given to her. Good.
Best Plot: Fitz - A well structured storyline. The change in the behaviour of the clansman came a bit suddenly, though, in my opinion. I understand that this was kind of the point, but a bit more description of the thoughts of the men would have been good, I think.
Best Atmosphere: Fitz - The atmosphere is very well established in the first few paragraphs. It's easy to feel Hubba Hubba's desperation.
Best Setting: Fitz - I can't exactly say why, but the world felt a bit too clicheed. I'm sure it was intended to a certain degree and it's a humoristic story, so that is not too bad. Still, I don't like the setting, but that's just my personal opinion.
Best Word Choice/Style: Fitz - Nothing special. It made me laugh out loud a few times and not because of bad writing, but good writing.
Cleverest Business Idea of Yore: Fitz - It fits the topic.

[Fitz]

Oh, the impossible choices...!

Best Character: Sinitrena. Chaotic tricksters such as the god of liars are always fun (he reminds me of Low Key from "American Gods"), but the prize goes to Claissa -- who's a strong, selfless character who does what it takes to help her loved ones. It's interesting how both our stories feature female leads who start off as the underdogs of the society and make their way up. Yours feels more... honest, I guess... in the way that Your story is a straightforward one, whereas I thrive on comical exaggeration and grotesque.
Best Plot: Sinitrena. I like how the story is actually more than a direct way to the discovery, and instead weaves a whole story around emotions, only slowly leading up to the ice trading business -- and how it doesn't end when the first transaction is made. Using the saw to cut the brother's leg in the end was a NICE touch!
Best Atmosphere: Sinitrena. There was drama, there was emotion -- and then there were those calmer moments as the gods watched the humans with a sense of cool detachment, as if life were a game, where rules are more important than people.
Best Setting: Sinitrena. Not really a fan of medieval (?) fiction, and I especially seem to be alergic to royalty, but bringing Greek-style deities, who interact and meddle with human affairs, into the mix definitely spiced things up.
Best Word Choice/Style: Sinitrena. There were a few terms that seemed too technical for this kind of story, but overall it was a very pleasant and smooth read.
Cleverest Business Idea of Yore: Sinitrena. I'm a sucker for ice-cream, so if I were a wealthy count, you'd surely make some money off of me

[Baron]

Well, I guess it falls to me to break the tie.  I was impressed with the writing in both stories, and am a little disappointed that they haven't garnered a larger audience.  But then I guess this is a bit of lefty-hippy anti-capitalist corner of the internet where such a materialistic topic would never be popular.    Anyway,  I have a few entrepreneurial suggestions for both of our contributors:

   I definitely think that Sinitrena should compile all of her short stories in the same world together into at least a virtual novel and try to distribute it on the internet.  I'm not well-read enough in the genre to say authoritatively, but I can't ever recall a stand-alone fantasy novel that was just a collection of short stories in the same world, with the occasional common thread/character popping up here and there.  Who knows, you might be on to something!  
     
     While Sinitrena's work borders on the epic, Fitz's would definitely fit better in a gentlemen's magazine.  It used to be that you could say with a straight face that you were just interested in the articles in the afore-mentioned magazines: I'm not sure how plausible that would be now that most nude pictures are online, but perhaps you could try pitching your story to a porn site as a way of making it a little more classy? 

    And now to the difficult job of actually determining a winner.  This was tough, but in the end I came up with:

Best Character: Fitz for Hubba Hubba.  I liked Sinitrena's Silent One, but he was already created for a previous contest, and while her other characters were well-fleshed out archetypes (Claissa was the pure and true heroine, Jahm the wayward innocent, Vallene the jaded busybody), they weren't especially complex.  Hubba Hubba, on the other hand, was at the same time repulsive and seductive, needy and independent, weak and strong.  It was also clever how she became idealized as the symbolic Earth-Mother, whose malproportioned figurines have been discovered throughout pleistocene humanity's encampments.
   
Best Plot: Sinitrena.  Once again you expertly wove seemingly unrelated threads into a compelling tale.

Best Atmosphere: Sinitrena: Your descriptions of the fisherman's hovel and town really made me feel the places.

Best Setting: Fitz for the base primitiveness of his human society.  I doubt humanity was ever really as boorish as you make them out to be, but playing out these stereotypes is still fun!  I liked Sinitrena's world probably equally as much, but again as it's recycled from previous sessions I have to give the edge to Fitz.

Best Word Choice/Style: Again a tough one to call, but I'm going to say Fitz by a whisker.  I really enjoyed his technical analysis of the female anatomy: Mammary glands seemed to be of special significance. A pair of big, round honka honkas guaranteed its proud owner a chance at reproduction. It is noteworthy that roundness seemed secondary to size -- and symmetry came third.

Cleverest Business Idea of Yore: Again tough.  Claissa was a reluctant entrepreneur who basically had to be shoved into the role through magic and a lot of very obvious hinting, while Hubba Hubba was more of an inventor than a business woman who probably would have preferred for her ideas not to disseminate.  I guess I'll give it to Fitz, half because if I give it to Sinitrena we'll end up with a tie again, but half because Hubba Hubba had the more daring spirit to experiment with new things in order to improve her lot in life.

  And so, it seems as if Fitz has the honour of being awarded this fortnight's highest honour, the Golden Coin:

  ...While Sinitrena receives a silver piece much as those described in her story:

Congratulations to both of you!  And don't spend your winnings all in one place. 

   And thus it falls to Fitz to start the next competition.  I for one look forward to writing again instead of just judging.  And maybe that enthusiasm will prove infectious, bringing more writers back into the fold for the next exciting instalment of....

The Fortnightly Writing Competition!

[Fitz]

It does seem like I have done everything in my might to deserve the reputation of the Fortnightly Writing Competition's resident pornographer I blame the themes, though, in both contests that I took part in. Odd couples -> opposites attrack -> sex. Business -> money -> sex Still, I don't consider either story erotica. LinGRRRie takes the comedic approach with a hint of detached scientific analysis. I like to pick apart different aspects of human mentality like that, espiecially pinpoiting how a lot of it driven by id, instincts and hormones. I might be a little bitter and cynical about the condition of humanity in general, but I tend to think 21st century people are capable of being every bit as shallow and goofy as those cavemen. But that makes them such a great thing to write about! Various dynamics between the animal and the intellectual struggling in the character's mind are always fun to write -- and so are strong emotions. Attraction. Fear. Obsession. Pain and hunger. Hope I'll be able to explore different areas of the human psyche next time. And if not -- and my road to fame and recognition is indeed that of an erotica writer -- may I remind you of a certain writer whose first published story, written for an adult magazine as a half-hearted advertisement of tampons, ended up being filmed by Brian De Palma, becoming a classic, and then being remade again, last year So don't be surprised if the same happens to The New Weird Switcheroo one day

Oh yeah, and thanks It's been fun and I'm looking forward to participating again, nothing gets the creative juices flowing like a contest -- and Baron, this one was exceptionally clever, loved it. I will try to come up with a topic for the next FWC in the next few days. I'll let you know once I come up with something to consult with you whether it'd work.

[Sinitrena]

Congrats, Fitz, to a well deserved win.
This was a great topic, Baron. I'm just sad Fitz and I had no other competition. Where are all the other writers?
Hopefully, they'll show up in the next round. Looking forward to it.

[Ponch]

'm just sad Fitz and I had no other competition. Where are all the other writers?
Hopefully, they'll show up in the next round. Looking forward to it.

In my defense, I've been laid up for the last couple of weeks with broken bones and stuff. Painkillers sucked all the creativity out of me.

Big congrats to you and Fitz for stepping up. Looking forward to seeing the next theme.

[jwalt]

In my defense, I've been laid up for the last couple of weeks with broken bones and stuff.

Oh noes... Broken bones!