Fortnightly Writing Contest. THEME: A Mysterious Town. VOTING UNTIL: March 30th

[Mandle]

THEME: A MYSTERIOUS TOWN

You all know the tropes:

Whether it be a town slightly embarrassed by the problem of the inbred cannibal family living on their outskirts, or a community where all the roads leading out (if any) just lead back into town from the other side, or that one that seems mired permanently in the culture of decades past, the concept of the mysterious town where everyone, except the outsiders, seems in on the secret holds a cherished place in storytelling.

Write a story set in a town that guards a secret, told either from the perspective of the outsider(s), the townspeople, or both, or even the town itself if sentient.

And hurry! Before the creepy little boy zaps you to the cornfields!

[Mandle]

Anyone working on anything?

I'm writing my own story again just for fun but not for voting.

[Baron]

I'm working on lots of stuff!    

But not this.    Not yet.   

[Stupot]

I’ve got an idea and have brainstormed it a little, but I don’t think I’m gonna be able to sit down and write it. We’ll see.

[Sinitrena]

I have a beginning (that needs work) and a general idea. I'm working on it.

[Baron]

All right, all right, you dragged it out of me.  I have an idea!  Or at least the rough outline of one.  Definitely something resembling an idea, though. 

[Mandle]

okay, some good news!

[Sinitrena]

Reading between the lines here, I think we all would like a bit more time. I certainly do. How about an extension?

[Mandle]

Reading between the lines here, I think we all would like a bit more time. I certainly do. How about an extension?

Of course... let's say until the 22nd for now?

[Baron]

Hehe, sorry for the length, this one got a bit away from me....     The plot features Jade Bloom, a character I developed a couple years back for the FWC topic of flowers.

There Will Be Sappiness

   My name is Bloom.  Jade Bloom.  And I am a 4-inch-tall vessel of destruction.   We pixies are a warrior race born and bred, and we pretty much all enlist for life in the Forest Defence Forces.  Outside of the army there’s really not much for us: no action, no camaraderie, and certainly no market for our head-busting skillset.  Which is why being court-martialed out of the FDF sucks harder than a half-starved leech on a haemophiliac moose butt.

   Yeah, I know, it’s my own damn fault for not reading the whole “war crimes” manual, but that thing was more potent than a bear tranquilliser when it came to putting me to sleep.  Most of that stuff should have been common sense, anyway.  But apparently there’s this “international convention” against the use of skunk gas on the battlefield.  Stupid peacenik pansies and their rulebooks!

   â€œWould you maybe please like to show me your ticket now?” a pansy stewardess asks me in a squeaky voice for the fifth time.

   â€œNo!” I bark, perhaps a little too harshly.  She cringes before nodding acceptingly and moving down the aisle to annoy other patrons.  The eagle-pod is jammed with the civilian elements of the Eight Races: brownies, fairies, pansies, shrews, goblins, elves, gnomes, and of course one fresh-minted civilian pixie.  There are even a few forest creatures peppered in: mice and frogs mostly, with a few more exotic creatures here and there.  My favourite is the drunken ferret who keeps ordering fermented raspberries with his head while his long body snakes all the way back to occupy one of the toilets in the back.  I wish I could navigate civilian life so smoothly….

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

   Happyfield.  Apparently it’s some kinda hard-luck tree-sap harvesting town, only most of the trees ran dry years ago.  Now it’s more of a pollen junky warren with a hard time retaining cops.  As I stand reading the town sign one of the web lines affixing it snaps, leaving Happyfield literally dangling by a single thread.

   â€œClassy,” I remark to myself. 

         â€œI guess, though not really….” a squeaky voice says indecisively from behind me.  I hate it when other folk mistake my opinions for conversation starters.  I turn to see that same eagle-pod pansy stewardess approaching from my six. 

         â€œYou’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” I tell her.

          “Oh, er, kinda… I mean, thanks!  But… no, I’m not still after your ticket,” she blurted.  Actually it was more like squeaky word-vomit.  The worst kind of word-vomit.

         â€œI sorta live here,” she continued.  “Work here, too, actually.  Except… well, my last three paychecks bounced.  Hence the stewardess thing - a girl’s gotta eat!  When I’m in town I’m actually the acting sheriff!  And I bet I know who you are…”

           I grimace inside like a spider feeding on toad warts.  In my left pocket there’s a letter of employment as chief detective for the Happyfield Police Department stressing “no experience necessary”.  They left out the bit about “no pay to be expected.”  The strawberry on the honey frosting was that I was meeting my superior officer for the sixth time today and I was out of money for a flight out of town.

           â€œI’m Grace,” the pansy said to break her awkwardness.  “I mean, Chief Deputy Grace Floret of the HPD.  And you must be our new chief detective….”

            “Bloom,”  I answered.  “Jade Bloom.”

*   *   *   *   *

   Happyfield wasn’t very happy looking, and it sure as hell didn’t have any field.  It was built in a dark sinister looking forest, with most of the inhabitants living in carved out mushrooms or rotting logs on the forest floor.  And even half of those were boarded up, although the how and the why of it defied even the logic of Chief Deputy Grace Floret of the HPD.  Even from a distance it was clear that the rotting logs were already three-quarters of the way to being soil; anyone really interested in squatting in a boarded up unit could simply walk through the rotten wood wall.  It was probably just the death fungus that was still propping them all up. 

   The same could be said of many of the residents of Happyfield.  They seemed to stumble about like zombies, all blank stares and jerky movements.  Most were pansies - any self-respecting being would have left long ago - but there were a few other folk here and there.  A particularly down-on-her-luck fairy begged for gumdrops in an alley, her tattered moth-wings looking like shredded sails after a naval battle.

   â€œYou don’t know what you got till it’s gone,” Grace squeaked sadly, reaching into her purse.

   My own wings twitched like cat ears at some invisible itch.  Pixies and fairies were the only folk with wings, although we couldn’t be more different from each other in every other respect.  Pixies were bad-ass warrior action junkies, while fairies were flaky princesses who….  “...wouldn’t be caught dead wearing moth wings,” I said aloud.  I heaved the wretched creature to her feet with one hand and one of the sodden wings actually broke off. 

        The brownie-in-fake-fairy-wings gave me a gap tooth smile.  “Can I still have the gumdrop?” she asked cheekily before popping into a thousand sparkles and appearing further down the alley.  Stupid brownies.

         â€œGood eye, detective!” Grace praised me squeakily.  “Although I still would have given her the gumdrop.  That’s Belinda Hoaxstra, and she’s a single mom with fifteen kids to feed at home.”

          “How does a single mom end up with fifteen kids?!?” I asked incredulously.

          “Er, well… she has been known to embellish, every once in a while.  And I admit I kinda haven’t cross-referenced her claim with the school board registry….” Grace trailed off.  I briefly hoped that logic was the oil to cure her squeak, but she’d actually lost her duckling-convoy of thought when she noticed a bug-eyed frog in a cop uniform bounding down the lane.

           â€œChief Deputy Floret!” he croaked urgently.  “Come quick!”

*   *   *   *   *

   Sergeant Springlegs brought us down to the old flower mill, a derelict facility of moss-covered kindling down by a little trickle they called The Brook.  On the ground there lay another cop, only this one was another pansy and he was turned to stone.  Standing over him was yet another cop, this one a bearded gnome, and a mole in a medical coat.

   â€œConstable Rockgarden, Doctor Squintroot, this is our new Chief Detective Jade Bloom,” Grace introduced everyone before getting down to business.  “I’m guessing we’re looking at more of the usual?”

   Usual?  This place just got a whole lot more interesting!

   â€œYes Ma’am!” the old gnome replied.  “Constable Dandelion was on routine patrol when he didn’t check back in.  We found him like this about an hour ago.  Doc says he’s been cold about twelve hours.  Just like the others: no weapon, no witnesses, not even a gourd-damned footprint.

   â€œAny sparkle residue?” Grace asked, remembering our recent encounter in the alleyway.

   â€œThere wouldn’t be any,” I said, examining the ground.  “Brownies might be able to pop around magically, but they still need to stand on the ground in-between pops.  You’re looking for someone who can fly, or tread so lightly they don’t leave a mark.  Goblins or elves, maybe?  Based on how the body fell the shot came from over there,” I continued, waving in Sergeant Springlegs’ direction.  “Sniffer flies find anything?”

   Doctor Squintroot’s nose feelers twitched ghoulishly.  “Nothing recent.  Bits of a crayfish claw between the stones on the east wall, old squirrel turd in the northwest corner.”

   â€œThat rules out Goblins,” I said.  “Those guys leave a trail of stink wherever they go.  Elves?”

   Doctor Squintroot shook his head.  “Not a flicker from the firefly sensor, and they light up wherever the merry folk have been.” 

   â€œHuh.  Gnome trace?” I asked, looking around for a suspiciously sized rock.

   â€œI’m the only gnome in town!” Constable Rockgarden grumbled.  Still, Doctor Squintroot took out a compass and shrugged, tapping at it.  “That only works when we’re in rock form!” the Constable grumbled, crouching to turn to rock.  Sure enough, the needle of the compass bent towards the rock until it turned back to gnome form.

   â€œWell, pixie or fairy wing scales, then?” I asked doubtfully.  “Little microscopic bits are always shedding.”

   â€œI tell you the crime scene is clean as a fresh-minted snowflake,” Doctor Squintroot declared.  “No fur nor feather, no trace nor track.”

   â€œWhat about the weapon then?  I’m guessing black-market black-magic disposable one-shot stone-spell wand, not reliably accurate outside a thirty pace range?”  The mole doctor blinked his beady eyes in surprise.  “Weapons are kinda my thing,” I told him.

   â€œEr, well, your theory matches our best guess, but we’ve never recovered a weapon, not from any of the crime scenes.”  His nose feelers twitched in agitation.  “All five of them.”

   â€œVictims?” I asked.

   Grace furrowed her brow.  “All cops,” she squeaked quietly.

   â€œAny other patterns?” I asked.  “Locations?  Times?  Investigations?”

   â€œNo.  Well, I mean hardly,” she vacillated.  “It’s always when they’re alone.  There are rumours…. More like rural legend, really….”

   I looked around for someone a little more helpful.  “They say it’s the Slender Stalker,” Sergeant Springlegs said.  “A creature half-folk and half-evil, more nightmare than reality.  He has a sinister magic and wears a crooked hat, but if he turns sideways he disappears into the night.”

   â€œThat’s just a bedtime story for little nippers,” Grace squeaked.  “We have no real leads.”

   â€œSure we do,” I said optimistically.  “Whoever’s doing this buys their wands from somewhere.  And,” I continued, “they’re targeting cops, which means they don’t want the police to find something.”

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œWhat are we looking for, again?” Grace yawned more than squeaked.  It was the wee hours of the night, and we were back at the station house going through old case files by firefly light.  Well, Grace was going through old case files - did I mention I’m not much of a reader?  I was polishing my custom polymer-framed short-recoil 2.5mm semi-automatic hornet sting pistol.  Hey, who says working girls can’t find time to spend with old friends?

   â€œContraband seizures, over the last five to ten years,” I said absently.  “Anything magic, or dark, or dangerous.”

   â€œLike that gun?” Grace squeaked before quickly turning back to her files.

   â€œLike something someone got from someplace they shouldn’t, and we can shake that someone down for information,” I said.  “And you should see my knife collection.”

   â€œOh, that’s a hard pass,” Grace squealed more than squeaked.  “Wait….”

   â€œChange of heart?”

   â€œNo, look at this.  About eight years ago, back when the sap was still running.  Old Sheriff Turquartz was still chief detective back then, but he busted a sap-syphoning ring of shrews down in the Old Hoar district.  Items seized included the usual: spiles, hoses, drums….  And one blackened mouse paw necklace of preternatural power.”

         â€œWhatever happened to it?” I asked.

         â€œIt says here it was destroyed in accordance with article 409B after judicial proceedings were complete.  It was classified as a class-C article, requiring no further analysis when not directly used in a criminal act.”

         â€œDoes it say which of those sap-runners it was found on?”

         â€œOne Gwennifer Spleenwart,” Grace squeaked.  “Says here she did three years in Singalong Prison after conviction.  Her last address listed was two years ago when she cleared parole: it’s a run-down apartment block in an old tree stump on Dampmoss Street, out in the sticks.  Maybe we should look her up in the files?”

         â€œMaybe we should look her up on the streets,” I suggested.

*   *   *   *   *

   I’d never ridden in the front of a paddy wagon before.  If not for drunken misdemeanours as a youth I wouldn’t have ridden in the back of one either.  The Eight Races tend to shy away from mimicking humans, but there are some inventions that are just too useful to pass up.  Chief Deputy Floret seemed to concur, as her personality was magically transformed by the power of the steering wheel in front of her.

   â€œTell me that’s not a class-C article containing forbidden magic,” I remarked, referring to the steering wheel’s effect on her.

   â€œStuff it, Pix-Stix!” Grace shot back at me.  “I’m in the driver’s seat now, baby!”

   I almost asked if I could drive on the way back, but something told me Grace wouldn’t be too keen on it.  Besides, I liked this new side to my timid squeaker of a colleague.

   â€œWhat’s this thing run on?” I asked instead.

   â€œHigh-octane sapoline, of course,” Grace hollered over the roar of the engine.  “You think you get 300 antpower acceleration from butterscotch filling?”

   â€œThis thing actually has ants under the hood, doesn’t it?” I cringed.

   â€œThey are the ultimate biological machine of the future,” Grace nodded.  “You know, they used to make these auto-wagons right here in town up until a couple years back.  The pride of Happyfield,” she said, smiling, as she pulled up in front of a boarded-up apartment stump.  “Well, this is it.  Looks like we’re about two years too late.”

   â€œLet’s have a sniff around just the same,” I ventured.  Something about having my hornet sting pistol along for the ride made me feel brave.

*   *   *   *   *

      The abandoned apartment block that looked like an old stump from the outside looked even more like an old stump from the inside.  The wooden access stairs had partially collapsed, making the central courtyard look more like a three dimensional labyrinth.  The interior walls were rotting out, and those left standing were ablaze with graffiti and fungi of all textures and colours.  And to top it all off a gentle night breeze blowing over the caved-in roof far above the central courtyard made the place moan and vibrate like the inside of a dying goose.

   â€œIt’s kind of like the inside of an insane clown brain,” I remarked, dodging cobwebs and detritus.  Grace shuddered and tried to squeak something, but alas she’d left the last of her bravado back in the paddy wagon. 

   â€œBased on these cobwebs,” I continued, “It seems this place is even too run-down for Happyfield residents.”  Grace didn’t seem to think my joke very funny, so I put my grumpy detective hat back on.  “You gotta unit number?”

   â€œ5E,” she squeaked quietly.  “But I don’t think those stairs are-”

   â€œWait for me here,” I interrupted, fluttering up through the tangled staircases to the fifth level.  The floor here was a bit squishy in places, but we pixies can tread pretty lightly if we choose to.  The door to 5E was locked, but someone had obligingly left a hole open in the adjacent wall, making an application for a search warrant unnecessary.

   Inside the apartment was even darker and danker than the rest of the building.  The pale light from my firefly torch seemed to evaporate into the blackness, and then began to flicker.

   â€œEverything all right up there?” Grace shouted tentatively from below.

   â€œYeah, it’s just my lamp is glitching…” I replied, trailing off as my thoughts caught up with my words.  Fireflies can’t help but glow where merriment has been, and can’t help but go dark where dark magic lingers.  I let the lamp be my guide, letting it flicker like a strobe light as I crisscrossed the mess of broken furniture, until it went completely dark at the bedroom door.  “I guess we’ll just have to light this up with muzzle flare,” I said to myself, holstering the firefly torch and drawing my trusty hornet sting pistol.  “What are you hiding in there, you Shrew?”

   I knocked the door down in one easy kick, but then was completely enveloped in darkness.  Something shrieked and I was tackled to the floor, except the floor wasn’t there any more.  We struggled for possession of my pistol, me and whatever shadowy thing had come at me, as we crashed through floor after floor.  It scratched and clawed at me, but all the black fierceness in the world is no match for years of grinding combat training.  By the third floor I had whatever it was in a compliance hold, and it broke my fall through the next two stories.  It continued to twitch and struggle a bit after we finally came to a rest on the main floor, but was strangely silent.

   â€œYou can stop shrieking now,” I told Chief Deputy Floret.
   
*   *   *   *   *

   It turns out my attacker was none other than Gwennifer Spleenwart herself, or at least what was left of her after three years of sumac juice addiction and dabbling in the black arts.  Now she was more of a raving wraith, eyeballs completely dark and cloudy, skin grey, clothes tattered to rags and lips peeled back into a permanent sneer.  I guess she’d been living in her bedroom since her apartment block was condemned, subsisting on the slime growing on the walls and her own self-loathing.

   â€œI don’t think a lifetime in Singalong is going to cure her,” I grumbled, wincing as Doctor Squintroot dabbed wood alcohol over the scratch marks on my arms to disinfect them.

   â€œNo, we take a more enlightened approach these days,” the doctor replied.  “It’s not so much an issue of criminality as it is of public health.  These folk are sick,” he stated earnestly.  “They don’t need more prison time, they need help.”

   â€œThey need to read the label before using,” I muttered back.  “And if that doesn’t set them straight, a healthy can of whoop-ass usually does the trick.”

         â€œBarbarous!” the doctor chided.  Our conversation was interrupted by Chief Deputy Floret and Sergeant Springlegs.   

         â€œShe’s not very intelligible anymore,” the frog began.  “But I did get a black-magic supplier out of her.  Well, a nickname for one.  They call him Mister Diggs.  Apparently he keeps office hours in the cemetery after dark.”

         â€œThat’s a pretty good lead!” I grunted as the doctor attacked another scratch.

         â€œWe found three class-C articles on her,” Grace reported.  “Which probably explains why the light was sucked out of the room.  I’d like to send a magic forensics team to sweep the apartment itself, but….”

         â€œ...it’s structurally unsound,” I finished for her.

         â€œYeah.  Oh, and we can’t afford a forensics team,” she continued.

         â€œWell, I hope Mr. Diggs comes through for us tonight,” I said.

         â€œThere’s something else,” Sergeant Springlegs croaked.

          There was a long silence as I looked from the frog to the pansy and back again.  Doctor Squintroot studiously continued his work.  Grace finally sighed and took the lead: “It’s Constable Rockgarden.  He was… found this morning.  Turned to stone, and not just gnome-trick stone, actual stone.”

          “Where?” I asked bluntly.

           Grace bit her lip.  “You might be surprised to hear that it was out by the cemetery.”

*   *   *   *   *

   The ride up to the cemetery was quite a bit more subdued than the night before.  Grace was a nervous wreck, her shaking hands struggling to find the right gears - the poor ants under the hood must have been knocking their heads together.  Sergeant Springlegs sat quietly in the back seat, slurping on some beverage through the built-in straw of a fly corpse.  I stared out the window, thinking.

   â€œWhat did all these folk do before the sap ran dry?” I asked as the blank faces swept past.

   â€œSapworks was the biggest employer,” Grace muttered.  “And there were lots of service jobs that depended on those workers: barbers, vendors, dentists, chefs….  Once the trees ran dry everything just spiralled down the drain.”

   â€œBack when the sap was running things used to be a whole lot different,” Sergeant Springlegs said from the backseat.  “The streets were clean and alive with busy folk.”

   â€œThere used to even be a fun park down by The Brook,” Grace smiled at the memory.

   â€œAnd a bug diner out by the byway,” Springlegs added, licking his chops.

   Grace took a right and started up a steep incline.  “Right, uh, I guess we need a kind of plan.  I think, given the circumstances, we should all stick together.”

   â€œThat’s a stupid plan,” I said.  Grace turned to talk to me, but no noise came out of her moving lips.  “Let me be blunt,” I continued, “all that shrieking back at the apartment complex is likely to get us killed out there tonight.  I know you mean well, but this ain’t small town patrol scat anymore.  I’m trained in weapons, combat, tactics, and battlefield psychology.  I’m taking over this op.”

     Grace pulled up next to a derelict mushroom house and nodded silently.

     It’s gonna play out like this,” I explained.  “I’m heading in there, alone, to extract info out of this Mr. Diggs.  Maybe things go smoothly and I meet you back at the wagon in an hour.  Or maybe things go sideways, and someone starts shooting off black magic.  Odds are he’ll fire a few shots off, but there’s lots of cover in a cemetery.  He starts to get nervous when he can’t see his enemy, so he starts putting distance between himself and the stones.  He’s gonna be making for safety, probably the way he comes in.  That’s where I need you guys, in the paddy wagon.”

        “Why in the paddy wagon?” Grace squeaked.

        “It’s fast, for starters.  And it’s got doors with locks.  Anything cast at you is going to hit the vehicle first, even if you are caught by surprise.  I think you guys are both good with a stone windshield instead of another stone cop?”  They both nodded solemnly.

        “OK, where are we at here?” I asked.

        “Cemetery’s just ahead,” Grace pointed.  “The road runs three quarters of the way around.  The old auto-wagon factory property makes up the other side, but that’s well-fenced.  If you’re right the dealer might flee east, into the abandoned sapworks.  Or north, into the old-growth forest.”

        “Then I need you guys parked at the northeast corner,” I said.  “No lights, and keep your eyes peeled.”  With that I slipped out of the vehicle and into the backyard of the derelict mushroom house.  There was no way I was approaching the cemetery from out in the open; I didn’t fancy having an “oh scat!” expression frozen in stone on my face for the rest of eternity.  Instead I crept quietly through the tangle of abandoned yards, hopping carefully over rotting fences.  When I reached the road I headed west to the old auto-wagon factory gate, and then snuck north in the shadow of the weed-covered fence into the cemetery proper.

        The tombstones stretched out in every direction, following the contours of the land more than any organized plan.  As one would expect of the Eight Races, the tombstones were a tangle of whimsical sculpture, making the cemetery resemble more a petrified orchard.  In the broad daylight the effect was probably one of unrestrained beauty.  At night, however, with a sliver of moonlight casting cold shadows obliquely, it had more of a sinister kill-box kinda vibe.

         I listened carefully for any sign of another being, then crept slowly through the shadows of the tombstones.  I don’t know much about black-magic dealers, but something told me they weren’t the type to linger at the margins of a creepy place.  Stealthily I made my way towards the centre of the cemetery.

     And then there were voices.  Well, one voice.  A throaty, lispy kind of voice that seemed to wheeze in a pantomime of melody.  I crept carefully between the stones to catch a glimpse of the speaker.  He was ill-defined in the pale moonlight, half obscured by the tangled shadows of the monuments.  Although he stood upright with arms and legs, his head and voice screamed snake.  Whether this was Mr. Diggs the black-magic dealer or not, there was certainly the air of preternatural evil about him.

         But wait, he was conversing with someone!  There, deeper in the shadows, there stood a second figure.  I couldn’t make out any identifying details, but the silhouette resembled that of a trenchcoat and a crooked hat.  I could hear no voice from the second figure, but when he gestured back at the snake-man there was a kind of chirpy clicking sound.  Could this be him, the notorious Slender Stalker?!?  I moved again, careful not to make any sound, trying to get within clearer earshot, but when I popped my head out again for another glimpse a shot of black magic whizzed by and turned the tombstone behind me into an even stonier version of stone.

          Damn snakes with their air-tasting tongues….  In all my efforts to keep silent and out of sight I had forgotten to take the breeze direction into account.  Still, there was no sense in squandering the opportunity for a perfectly good shoot out.  I drew my pistol, tossed a pebble in one direction, and when another black-magic spell shot by on that side I rolled out the other, pistol blazing.
The two nefarious characters scattered, each firing wands off with little regard for aim.  The snake-man dove behind a longer monument while the trench-coated mystery-being stalked unsteadily through the stones - perhaps he was hit?  I let off a few more rounds in his direction, ducked to reload, and then made a mad dash for the longer monument.

           Blast!  There was nothing back there but an abandoned black-magic transform-charm and some snake tracks leading into a hole under it, from whence echoed a fading evil chuckle.  But I still had a chance to take down our Slender Stalker candidate.  I dodged out from behind the monument, another shot of black-magic narrowly missing me.  I shot back twice in the direction that the shot had come from, then ducked into some shadows to approach from another angle.  I scanned the cemetery for movement but could make out nothing except the stillness of stone.

           Wait!  There, by a particularly ornate tombstone, I could make out his distinctive silhouette!  He was crouched, looking in the direction where I had been a few moments before.  I took careful aim this time, then shot twice.  The mystery figure collapsed backwards.  Taking no chances I kept my pistol aimed in his direction as I cautiously approached.

           I found nothing there but an empty trenchcoat and an abandoned hat.

*   *   *   *   *

   Back at the paddy wagon I related everything that had happened.

   â€œWe saw the snake cross the road!” Grace squeaked.  “We tried to pursue, but the wagon wouldn’t start!”

   â€œThe strange thing was, there weren’t even any footprints left…” I mused, handing the abandoned trenchcoat and hat to Grace.  “And look: the stinger holes go right through the coat and out the other side.  Same with the hat:  I hit him three times, but it was like he wasn’t even there.”

   â€œLike I said, he turns sideways and disappears!”  Sergeant Springlegs muttered.  “He’s like a phantom of the night!”

   â€œShouldn’t you be checking on why the wagon won’t start?” I grumbled.  The last thing I needed to hear was more froggy tales.

   â€œI don’t know nothing about mechanicals,” Springlegs confessed.  “And less about bug husbandry, except how to eat them.”

   Grace sighed in frustration.  “I’ll check it out,” she said.  But she wasn’t two seconds under the hood before she squeaked an exasperated curse.

   â€œYou kiss your mother with that dirty mouth?” I asked, walking around the auto-wagon to join her.  But when I arrived I could see clearly by firefly lamp-light what the problem was.  “What about your aunt?”

   â€œVery funny,” she squeaked, for indeed all the ants but one were gone.  The last one scampered about in confused circles before himself slipping out of a hole in the chassis and disappearing into the darkness.

   â€œI never heard of the like,” Grace squeaked grumpily.  “It’s a long walk back to the station house, at least for those of us without wings.”

   â€œYeah, that’s a lot of walking,” I agreed, grabbing the firefly lamp and examining the ground.  “But look, no tracks.”

*   *   *   *   *

[Baron]

*     *     *     *     *

   â€œSo this is my theory,” I said.  Grace, Springlegs and I were all standing in front of the boarded-up sapworks, which lay roughly in the direction in which the last ant had scampered off.  “The auto-wagon plant goes bankrupt, what?  Six years ago?  Maybe they had a problem with their ant-hypnosis process, or maybe they just closed up shop and forgot a bunch of ants behind.  But you said yourself, those ants are born and bred to feed on processed sapoline!  The ants find the source of the sap nearby.  Their population explodes, and they self-organize to both maximize their sap take and defend their nests.  The sap never ran dry - it was just diverted!  And there was never a Slender Stalker, just a bunch of ants stacked together working like a team, kind of like-”

   â€œ-in an auto-wagon engine,” Grace finished my thought.

   â€œAnd the black-magic was just a convenient means to an end, what with a dealer operating right between the old auto-wagon factory and the old sapworks,” I continued.  “Those ants that I shot at tonight just scattered after abandoning their disguise, with some of them coming by the paddy-wagon and persuading your engine-ants to have a taste of liberty.”

   â€œGosh, can you really blame them?” Grace said, thoughtfully.

   â€œMy bet is that somewhere between the old sapworks and the roots of the old sap trees you’ll find a network of ant tunnels and one hell of a syphoning operation,” I concluded.  “And, probably more than a few warrior ants equipped with some pretty nasty black-magic.”

   â€œSounds dangerous,” Sergeant Springlegs croaked, still slurping at his fly beverage.

   â€œSounds like an operation for a battle-hardened pixie warrior!” I said smiling, checking my hornet-sting pistol for ammo.

   Grace fidgeted pensively.  “Maybe there’s a way we can resolve all this without resorting to more violence and misery?  Maybe the ants can be given a legal percentage of the sap in exchange for giving up their black-magic?  Without the need to squander so many resources on defending their interests, there’d probably be plenty of sap left over to restore some semblance of prosperity to Happyfield.  Without the business in dealing so much illegal black-magic, maybe this sinister Mister Diggs character leaves town?  If we play this right, everyone could walk away from this better off!  What do you think, Chief Detective Bloom?”

   I gave Chief Deputy Floret a long hard stare.  Gourd-damned pansies and their peacenik ways; they took all the fun out of busting heads!  “I think,” I said, carefully considering the scenario that she had laid out, “that I should have read that damned war-crimes manual.”

[Mandle]

Awesome! A nice meaty submission in from Baron!

Extending to the 24th. Final extension.

[Sinitrena]

Another extension? And I rushed so much to finish my entry in time (it's still the 22nd, and we always go by end of the day, right?  ) But with two more days, I'll do a bit of proofreading before I post (and I do a bit of sleeping now, before I edit) *is tired

[Sinitrena]

How come a 7500 words story still feels rushed when proofreading? Doesn't matter, it's done:

Part 1 of 2

Kaliven

Kaliven lay in the desert. High walls surrounded it, and behind the walls, the desert began. No rivers found their sluggish path through the dunes, but the city was still green and lush. Palms and beefy succulents lined the streets, drapes and flags in bright colours hung from all buildings, music sounded from every corner. It smelled of pepper and cinnamon, of curcuma and ginger, lavender and roses. Wide fields huddled close to the houses of Kaliven and even seemed to stretch into the streets themselves.

The walls did not separate city and fields, instead, they enclosed the whole settlement. No doors opened a path from the city to the outside world, no stairs led towards the battlement. For the city and its people, the walls where smooth and cold, uninviting, impenetrable. It were the walls of a prison.

That was what the people on the walls said to each other, the solders patrolling around Kaliven, looking down into its streets and onto its people. They had a small settlement outside the walls. There, no varied colours brightened the days of the warriors, no spicy foods and fresh water made life a pleasure. The fragrances of the spices drifted to them, but their taste never touched their lips. The prisoners lived a far better life then their guards.

Sometimes, people looked up to the walls from down below and sometimes they shook their head, cleared it from a fog that wasn’t there. But soon they followed their path through the wide streets again and soon they danced to the music and bathed in the elegant canals. Mosaics and frescos decorated columns and walls, bridges and flower pots.

Often, people walked towards the walls and the guards high above expected them to stop, to halt their steps, to turn around, but they never did. And no matter how often the guards saw what happened next, they could never turn away and never believe it. For the walls did not hold the people of the city prisoner as it should have, but neither did they leave them free. For the city of Kaliven, the world ended just a few steps before the walls. When they walked close and closer, when they stepped through this invisible barrier, they themselves turned invisible. Though were they still there? Here, their realm ended, here their world came to an end, here they found death in the void. Slowly, their bodies became pale and clear and soon they were gone. They never screamed or fought or showed signs of fear, they just walked out of this world into one beyond.

Long ago, the wall was build. Long before lavender grew purple here on wild fields, long before the canals was created that cut the city in four quarters, long before an artist carved the two twin statues of mystical beasts that overlooked the temple in the city centre, long before there was a regular garrison on the outside, long before criminals were brought from far and wide to find salvation or death in this beautiful prison.

This was the city of Kaliven, in the wide desert and far from all civilization, and this was the city Mjavan now rode towards. The veil hung deep over her weathered face and even the short hair pricked uncomfortable under the airy hat. With large, dancing steps, her camel slowly staggered through the deep sand under the burning sun. Long days ago she had passed through the last settlement and the large water-skins on the other animals were hanging floppy and empty from the saddles. The last few drops of water from her personal flask had moistened her lips a few minutes ago, when she finally crossed the last dune and the high walls of Kaliven became visible. The other men, the soldiers she was leading to their new post, as well as the prisoners in the rickety carriage all urged the animals forward. No prison could be as bad as the trip through the desert. The garrison had water, at least.

There was water from a deep well. It was sluggish and dirty and tasted like sand, but it was still welcome. Mjavan waited for her men to drink before she took a cup from one of the soldiers. Disapproval flickered over her face as she looked at the men and women station here at the end of the world. Their uniforms were in disarray, bloodshot eyes spoke of alcohol and lack of sleep, the huts and weapons were dirty, animals, that were supposed to feed the people of the garrison, looked hungry and meagre.

Not even the idea of a rebuke ever touched her lips. All this was normal and her disapproval just a momentary fancy. She wasn’t here to bring order to soldiers she didn’t care about at a posting she meant to leave behind soon anyway.

With one last look at the carriage and the five prisoners inside, Mjavan followed the dirty path, that was nothing more than a trail, through the sand towards the wall. No door lead to the inside but two stairs snaked towards the battlement in opposite directions. Here, the wall was thicker and a rope winch and a metal cage told of the purpose of the platform. A crane allowed the cage to swing over the city and through the invisible barrier that was open in one direction and death in the other and that the prisoners would pass in an hour from now and that Teccin had passed all these years ago.

Mjavan stepped towards the balustrade and looked down into the city. First looking far into the distance, she only saw colours. The fields gleamed in all colours of the rainbow. It was close to dusk and the red shine of the sun mixed with the purple and yellow, the blue and the green of the flowers. Deep in the red, far away, the wall snaked around the fields but as she tried to look this far, shiny spots danced on her retina instead. She looked closer then, at the streets. Long and straight, they followed a pattern of exquisite regularity. White like the sun, they gleamed golden from tiny specks that were part of a stone Mjavan had never seen before. Mjavan had never seen anything like that before.

Every settlement she had passed on the way towards Kaliven, every town she had lived in or served in, was grey or brown. No plants stretched their green arms towards the sun there. Instead, they tilted their wilted heads under the heavy, thick air. No blue water sloshed through the land. It was maroon and sluggish everywhere, but here in Kaliven it shimmered like the sun. And the cities Mjavan was familiar with stank of urine and shit, of sweat and blood. Here, sweet scents drifted to her nose, here laughter reached her ears, songs and screams. Not the screams of pain she knew, not the screams of hunger and fear, but the ones of joy, of life. Only children, she thought, only children who don’t know better yet, ever scream like that.

“A strange prison, is it not?” the soldier who was patrolling along the battlement had stopped next to the new officer and almost whispered to her now, “To think that we send murderers there. Thieves and robbers, the worst of the worst…”

Her hand was almost at her dagger before she realized who was talking to her. “Who isn’t a murderer or a thief?”, Mjavan asked, still lost in her own thoughts and overwhelmed by her first impression of Kaliven.

“True.” the soldier answered with a shrug, then went back the way he had come.

Of course it was true. Everyone stole, everyone killed. How else were you supposed to survive? Who wasn’t a murderer or a thief? Who hadn’t stolen at least once in his life? The loaf of bread, the rationed water in the summer heat, the place to sleep in a cold night? When there is not enough for everyone, what choice do you have but to take what is not yours? And is it so reprehensible to kill in order to survive?

Mjavan had killed more than once, had lied, had pretended to be fighting for law and order, when in truth she fought for herself.

And if there is enough but you can’t afford it, but others have more than they need? Why should you stop your hands from taking, your teeth from biting, your knife from wounding?

Mjavan wanted to survive, just like everybody, just like Teccin. No, not Teccin.

Teccin had stopped the strike in time, had decided to rather die than be killed. And when he had looked into Mjavan’s eyes that day, she did not understand. And to this day she still did not. He was a thief, a bandit, but not a murderer, never a murderer. When his men were hungry, he had given them his food, when the little girl was shaking from the cold, he had given her his coat, when the soldier hit the boy next to him, he had turned and taken the hit.

It was years since she had met Teccin, years since she had worked with him. Then, she was young, they both were. And when the offer came to betray the bandit leader, she had gladly taken the money and the job they offered as well. Hunting thieves or stealing, it was all the same to her, but not to Teccin. She never even bothered to tell him of their child.

Loud voices dragged her from her thoughts as the prisoners were brought up the stairs towards the platform.

The sun had nearly set and only a narrow strip of light still blinked over the walls. The soldiers had ignited some torches on the battlement, though most light came from the city.

Even at night, Kaliven shone bright. Around lamps of fluorescent lights, tiny insects whirred. As the voices from below slowly faded into the night, their buzzing drifted to the soldiers’ ears instead. Now that silence slowly fell over the city, it even seemed like the trickle of the countless fountains and canals reach up to the walls, inviting and still threatening.

The beauty of Kaliven was inviting, enticing, alarming. The city’s scents made Mjavan’s nostrils swell with anticipation and the quick cold of the desert at night send shivers down her spine. One look at the soldiers and prisoners told her that they felt the same, fascination and fear, hope and dread, and none could decide what was real.

With a simple flick of her hand, Mjavan ordered the prisoners into the cage. She didn’t even look at them, still lured towards the balustrade and the city where all these years ago the father of her daughter had disappeared into. She ignored the calls from the prisoners, who did not know what awaited them down below. None of them knew, not even the soldiers or Mjavan. For all they knew, the inhabitants of the city regularly killed the prisoners that were send to them. It was what Mjavan would have done. It was the logical thing to do, maybe even the merciful thing, though mercy never played a role in Mjavan’s decisions.

The cage swung on its crane over the balustrade, rocking back and forth on the thick rope. It did not hang far over the wall. When the soldiers started to turn the winch to lower the cage, the wrought iron of the cage scraped against the stones. It sank slowly, one tiring turn after the other. Finally, the cage sat down on the cold sand in the shadow of the wall, just a few steps from the invisible barrier. Without waiting for a signal, the soldiers turned a different winch and the gate of the cage opened. Now, the prisoners could leave the prison, could decide to take one or two or three steps towards the city and into the eternal prison, or stay where they were, in the no-mans-land between city and wall, between barrier and wall. Evidence of those who had chosen this static path peeped through the sand on every step around the inside of the wall. Bones and scraps of clothes lay there. Some had died fast, a stolen knife to their heart, or slower, when they rammed their heads against the walls, or even slower when the thirst took them in the end.

Mjavan did not understand these people. She feared this city, she feared Kaliven just like anyone, feared the magic of the barrier, feared the lure and temptation of Kaliven’s beauty, but was all this really worse than death of thirst and heat?

One prisoners sank into the sand, his back towards the wall, two turned towards their left, skirting around the invisible barrier along the walls, maybe hoping that they could climb the wall somewhere and escape. But two of the prisoners looked at each other and then they took this one fateful step.

Mjavan shuddered. Nothing visible happened, nothing tangible, nothing extraordinary. Two people walked side by side over a bit of sand, until their feet touched the glittering mosaic of a city street. Nothing special happened. The air did not shake with electricity, no thunder and lightning rained from the sky, no angry gods threw bolts. Nothing happened. But that didn’t stop the shudder from running through Mjavan or the prayer to some gods she didn’t even believe in or the sudden dryness in her mouth.

An old woman looked at the two prisoners from her window in a little bungalow. As soon as she saw them, she came outside, then spoke a few words to them, then ushered them inside.

Mjavan turned away. She didn’t want to know what would happen next. The transition into Kaliven was so anticlimactic that she wondered for a moment if any of this was even real. Was there really a barrier they could never pass in the opposite direction? Would she be a prisoner forever when she followed them into Kaliven? When she followed Teccin?

She shook her head. All these years, she had hardly thought of her former lover. She had not thought of him when she abandoned their mutual daughter in the streets, had not thought of him when she arrested or extorted criminals, when she transported them from one prison to the next, when a job turned out lucrative or failed. She never thought of him, not until a few weeks ago when the order came to bring these five men to Kaliven. And even then it was just a fleeting thought, a name that drifted through her mind only to disappear again a moment later. And then, on the journey, the abscesses began to form on her skin. She knew what that meant, of course she did, everyone did. How long did she have left? A year? A month? Few people got old enough to develop the abscesses, though everyone was sick, of course. Fewer still survived their spread for long. For now, they were just on her arms, but soon they would reach her face. Did she want to see if Teccin was just as sick? If he was still alive? Did she want to tell him of their daughter that probably died barely born? Did she want to apologize, made amends?

No, Mjavan didn’t feel sorry. She did what she had to do, what everyone would have done. Everyone, except Teccin. Maybe she just wanted to see someone again who did not look at her with hatred or indifference. Maybe she could not think of anyone but Teccin. And maybe it was worth to go into eternal uncertainty if there was just the tiniest bit of beauty on the way.

Night had fallen over Kaliven and the torches flickered darker and darker with every minute. Mjavan still stood on the battlement and down below a lonely prisoner still sat in the cold sand. She had lost sight of the two skulking around the wall and the two in the city. Only one was still there. The guards, supposed to patrol the walls, had slunk past her a while ago, certainly thinking the officer wouldn’t notice them. She had noticed, but she didn’t care.

Now the sounds of boisterous laughter came from outside the walls. Bottles clinked against each other as drinks were passed from one hand to the next. Men and women alike were dancing to the hard rhythm of knives clanging against pots and pans.

Mjavan was familiar with these sounds. Soon there would be the moaning and groaning of fucking, then the angry voices of jealousy, then the cracking of broken bones or the sloshing of a knife into flesh. It was always the same, everywhere. Not too long ago, she would have been in the middle of this orgy, taking one or two of the men or women as fucktoys for a night. But now she was tired. She was so tired. Maybe it was the illness, maybe it was just life, but tonight she didn’t care for the usual amusements.

For a second, temptation struck her, though. Just one last time, just once before I go. But she didn’t turn around, she didn’t look back. If she had, if she had turned towards the soldiers, if she had taken the steps down towards the settlement, she doubted she would have been able to get back onto the battlement.

The winch felt heavy in her hands. With the walls so smooth and slick, it seemed impossible to just climb down. But if she lowered the cage, she could climb the rope.

With no other people up on the platform, the groaning of the winch seemed impossibly loud. Every turn of the winch seemed to shatter her eardrums, every squeaking seemed to call out to the world. It was a warning cry, a last reminder that there would be no way back and again a shudder ran down her spine. But Mjavan was no-one who doubted herself. She never looked back and she never stopped.

Down below, the prisoner stirred when the cage jangled down next to him and Mjavan abseiled. He jumped to his feet, a bone or piece of wood in his hands.

Mjavan hadn’t really looked at him while she was transporting the prisoners, hadn’t really looked at any of them. Now she saw him for the first time. He was young, younger than Teccin when he was send here, younger even than she was then.

He jumped towards her. Before he had even lifted his club fully, her dagger already poked from his chest. With a breathless death rattle, he sank to the ground as blood bubbled from his mouth. Mjavan did not bother with a second look at the boy when she retrieved her dagger. He was of no consequence to her.

The dagger back in her belt, she turned towards the city again. From above, the countless lanterns had given the city an almost mystical shine, but down here, where houses obscured most of the view, the light only peeked through the walls occasionally. It was dark. Mjavan scratched with her feet in the sand. Sand. It was sand, cold and wet, sticking to her boots. And in front of her, the city suddenly began. She could see the floor tiles, clean and dry, beginning out of nowhere. They were small, little colourful pebbles that marked a street, but she could still see where some were cut in half, part inside the city, and the other part must have been swallowed by the great nothing on her side of the invisible barrier. Therefore not completely invisible, Mjavan knew exactly when she would step into Kaliven and when she would never be able to return. But what was there to return to?

[Sinitrena]

Part 2 of 2


This was the last push, the last pep-talk she gave herself and she walked into Kaliven, not looking back, not thinking about her world, already forgetting the boy she had just killed.

She felt nothing. She expected a shower to run over her, an icy waterfall or the sizzling of fire, but again there was nothing. Had she not known that there was indeed something, had she not felt the different ground under her feet, she might have doubted that she passed into Kaliven proper at all.

For a moment, for the split second between here and there, she wondered if it was even real, if Kaliven was really disconnected from her world as she was always told, if she could really never go back, or if it was all a ploy, a set-up, a lie. For a second, she was tempted to test it, to turn around and go back. She wanted to make sure that the prison was indeed a prison and behind the barrier there was nothing but death from this side.

She did turn around, not to walk across the barrier again, but to see the walls that were no her prison walls as well.

They were gone. Gone were the walls and the desert, gone were the sounds of angry men and fucking girls from beyond the wall, gone was the corpse of the man she had killed. Gone was the sand and the bones, gone were the cage and the rope. Behind her, where moments ago her world had been, now stood a building and further along the street, tiled in exquisite colourful pebbles, were more houses, gardens, lanterns, flower pots, red and blue and green drapes, and further still, far in the distance, only visible because lanterns stood there and illuminated it, a wide river. It flowed through the city full of life, blue and powerful.

The barrier, only marked by the walls and the knowledge of its existence and the change from sand to stone on the ground from the outside, was non-existent from the inside. The ground did not change, the walls did not block the view, the desert was not visible for miles and miles to come. Looking into the dark street, Mjavan could even doubt that Kaliven lay in the desert, so full of life it seemed even at night.

Mjavan shuddered. She leaned against a palm tree not far from the place she had entered the city and breathed in and out slowly. Nothing marked the transition from one world to the next, nothing warned of the dangers of the barrier in the middle of the street. No wall, not even small, would have stopped her steps, no sign on the corner of the house, no soldier was there to warn and to hold.

It was so easy to pass into nothing here. Mjavan had always considered her reality cruel, but this was… this was beyond evil.

Or did they… Or did they not even know? A new shudder ran down the officer’s spine.

Magic had created the barrier some hundred years ago, when war reigned and desperation lead to unthinkable methods. Few had survived. There were stories of a world once beautiful, but nothing was left now but the wish to survive. Had the people of Kaliven never learned of this? Did they not know that their world, their city, was just a step on the way to hell, a purgatory that lied with its beauty? Did they believe the illusion behind the barrier was real?

Mjavan sank to the ground. Too many thoughts fought for dominance in her mind, too many ideas. None of them mattered, not to her. All philosophical and moral implications were irrelevant for her. But they still came, unbidden and unwanted.

Again and again she looked back at the street she supposedly came on, that was not there, that was not real. She saved every aspect of the street in her mind, remembered every corner and stone. No matter what life would mean to her here, she never wanted to walk over these pebbles again.

Mjavan’s main objective was always survival. Maybe she did want to see Teccin again, maybe there was the hint of love in her once, but she only chased it half-heartedly into a city that felt unreal and like a lie â€" a lie in its beauty and a lie they told themselves.

The morning sun already painted the sky orange when Mjavan stood up again. All at once, as if controlled by magic, all the lanterns turned off. Mjavan winced, then decided, as best as she could, to ignore all strangeness in this city. There were more pressing matters anyway. Mjavan was hungry, and, more important even, she was thirsty. While the river glinted behind her, she had absolutely no interest to go in this direction. Somewhere in front of her, somewhere between the houses standing close to each other and under the veils of colourful and thin fabrics that were stretched over the streets, the canals had to be. A bit groggy from lack of sleep and disorientation, Mjavan followed the street in a straight line.

Slowly, the city of Kaliven woke to the sound of birds chirping in the trees. People stepped out of their houses and brushed the pavement on their doorsteps or followed all the same general direction to the city centre. Mjavan went with them, not really sure where she was going. Some people looked at her strangely, eyeing her uniform that had seen better days or the short spiky salt and pepper hair that was now visible as she had removed her veil and hat, but nobody talked to her.

Still, she did hear voices, though it seemed to her at the same time as if these people were not able to speak. Their syllables made no sense, their words had no meaning. Long ago, Mjavan had heard that people spoke different in different parts of the world a long time ago, but that had stopped after the war. There was only one language left in the world, and the people of Kaliven did not speak it.

She reached the canal after a while. The water tasted like nothing that had ever touched Mjavan’s lips before. It didn’t have the sandy graininess she was used to, nor the burning bitterness of alcohol. It refreshed her and the sand, dirt and sweat washed from her body in seconds. She watched the grains slowly sink to the ground. The water was so clear that she could follow every one of them with her eyes and watch them settle on the mosaic deep below. Mythical creatures looked back at her there, large monsters in iron shells and birds with wings as wide as a house. She sat there and watched them moving in the calm waving of the water, only moved by the occasional mild wind.

As she watched the water, people started to watch her. She felt their eyes on her back, burning and drilling into her. For now, they were still a few steps away, but soon they would come closer. They would go for her sword or her throat, they would drag the few coins from her purse, the golden chain from her neck.

A furtive look behind her told her that there were too many. And they whispered and gossiped and soon they would attack. People always did. It was just natural and a stranger was an easy target, always. There were too many to fight them. One she could take, two, maybe three, but there were six or seven of them, more still in the streets behind them.

While Mjavan still assessed her situation, one of the strangers came forward. He was clothed in the same colourful and thin fabric that hung from all the walls into the streets, offering shadows and coolness. The clothes were wide and airy, his hair was long. Strips of the same fabric held it together, though nothing held his dress. No sword or knife hung from his belt, as there was no belt to hold them. Maybe his weapons were in the folds of the caftan, but Mjavan did not see any.

Words in this strange dialect she could not understand came from his lips as he slowly stepped closer, one hand stretched out towards her.

When he was close enough, she reacted. The dagger brushed over his palm as she turned around. He pulled his hand back and she jumped into the canal. No escape was possible through the streets behind her, too many people stood there, but the opposite bank of the canal was free, at least for now.

As the man winced in pain and pulled his hand back, Mjavan swam through the clear blue water. Calls followed her, angry and threatening, though she did not understand them. For one breath, she thought a word here or there sounded familiar, but not enough for her to understand it.

Nobody else jumped into the water, nobody followed her. It were just the words, the calls that drove her forward, no matter how much the water dragged on her clothes or how much the hunger pulled on her stomach.

Tired, she reached the other side of the canal and pulled herself up on the bordered bank. Slipping through the canal’s banister, she quickly vanished into the streets again.

Looks still followed her. She felt them on her back with every step, while water dripped from her clothes and she left a trace of wet footprints behind. The streets here were smaller, the houses stood closer together than on the other bank of the canal. Fewer people were outside here, though the sound of work drifted from the open doors of many houses. Metal clanged against metal, brushes scraped over wood, but her mind was mainly on her stomach now.

When had she eaten last? Sometime around noon the day before and now the sun was already close to its zenith again. She knew hunger. Often, there had been days between one meagre meal and the next, but that had been a while ago. She was an officer now, she was stronger than normal citizens or even soldiers. Nowadays, people offered her food, so that she may do a favour sooner or later. But here in Kaliven, nobody knew her and her uniform was meaningless. She couldn’t even ask someone for food, wouldn’t even if she could. She was used to taking, not asking.

With the instinct of a rat, Mjavan found herself on a wider square after a while. The large windows of the surrounding houses stood open and wooden beams held awnings over them. They were filled with food, so much food. Mjavan had never seen such abundance before, never seen such fresh fruit or such variety. Most things she did not recognize. An apple was a luxury for her, porridge the height of culinary. But here, everything smelled sweet and inviting. Once again, Kaliven tempted the stranger with its beauty.

People walked past the stands and talked to the merchants, they laughed and they bought, but Mjavan knew neither the language nor did she have money, and the little bit she did have on her she was not willing to waste on food she would need every day. That was never a good trade. It was never a good idea to buy something so fleeting. Besides, she had stolen before. Who hadn’t?

She wasn’t exactly inconspicuous in her black uniform and with the short hair when everyone here seemed to wear theirs long. So sidling up to one of the stands wasn’t really an option. But neither was grabbing and running.

She choose neither option. Instead, she walked towards one of the stands â€" selling bread, something she at least recognized â€" with her head held high. Taller than most women and with broader shoulders than most men, Mjavan easily made room for herself on the way there. She looked disparagingly at the wares â€" such variety she had never seen before â€" and took one of the loafs into her hands, turning it up and down and left and right. Examining the fresh bakery good, she waited for the merchant to be distracted, then she pressed it to her chest and walked away.

It did not take long for the merchant to call after her, the words of course still meaningless to her. She still got the gist of it, she was sure. And like all people she knew, the other inhabitants of Kaliven on the market place did not care for one thief and instead were only interested in their own business.

There were no soldiers on the streets, no guards. The whole day, Mjavan had not seen a single uniform, while in the outside world they were the constant companions of every gathering of people, even the smallest one. Where two people met, one was sure to be a soldier or at least an informant. This was the way the world worked. How else could you maintain the semblance of order? They would probably not react to a merchant going after a thief, though, unless the merchant paid well.

Here, in Kaliven, no soldiers patrolled the streets and the merchant did not even have the illusion of security as he followed Mjavan.

“Wait!” he called, distinctly now in her own language, but this only made the former officer quicken her pace. She pushed through the crowd towards the smaller alleyways where shadows might help her hide.

Instead, she walked right into a dead-end. The merchant, far better aware of the streets and their layout, stayed at the entrance to the narrow street.

“I only need,” he wheezed, already exhausted from the short and not very fast chase, “only need your… registration… number…”

Mjavan looked at him strangely. The words were in her language, but they still made no sense to her.

The merchant must have notice her confusion, for he continued: “For my books? To know to which account this bread is charged? The account of the citizen office?” The more he spoke, the less sense he made to Mjavan.

When she still didn’t say anything, he slowly came further into the alleyway. He was a small man, small and old and fat. His hair was grey and his skin wrinkled but no abscesses marked his true age, as if he had somehow managed to escape the sickness. “Your new here, aren’t you? Are you â€" are you even registered yet?”

This was the final step, the one too close to her. His hand stretched towards her in the same manner as the man at the canal had reached for her, she also went for the same move. In one smooth movement, she pulled her dagger from the belt and turned towards him. The edge slashed over his face, but before she could assess the damage, she rammed into him with her shoulder and made him stagger. Mjavan did not see if he fell, as she was already at the exit of the alleyway.

Then, she heard him call again, loud and his voice filled with pain and in the language of Kaliven. She started to run. Maybe, just maybe the people here did care enough to react to this scream.

Heads turned and feet trampled the ground as she turned a corner. They followed her, all of them, it seemed. Soon, after just a moment, the whole city seemed to be on its feet and Mjavan did not know her way through the streets. They were narrow here and more than one ended in a dead-end, more than once she had to turn around again. She pushed passed the agitated people, brushing their shoulders, when hands grabbed for her, when legs kicked at her.

She jumped, she ran. Her long legs carried her faster and faster, but soon exhaustion set in. She was not as young anymore as she once was, not as fit. The sickness had started to take its toll on her. The ground was flat, almost too smooth, when she allowed herself to look back for a fraction of a second. She did not see the man in front of her. She ran into him, she stumbled and fell and before she could pick herself up again, the crowd surrounded her.

She fought with blade and nails but the people pressed her to the ground, held her. They didn’t strike her, or spit at her or even laugh about her misfortune, but they immobilised her. But as long as she was alive, as long as she was awake, Mjavan fought back. More than one of her kicks landed in the groin of one of the men, more than one person moved back with a bloody nose or a gash.

Few words reached her, most in the language she did not understand but some in her own. “Calm down. Everything will be all right. Be still.” She didn’t listen to them, of course. When her body was almost to tired to fight back, the crowd split and let a young woman through. She wore a white coat and held something in her hands that Mjavan had never seen before. It looked like a small vial that had a tiny thorn at its end. The young woman knelt down next to the still struggling older one. “This will calm you down,” she said and set the vial’s thorn to Mjavan’s skin. A second later, the former officer felt her muscles relax and her heart beating slower. Knowingly, the young woman watched her for a moment, then she nodded to some of the men.

Mjavan was pulled to her feet. Hanging between two strong men, each an arm under one of her shoulders, she was dragged through the streets. No people followed her, no jeering. Some people shook their heads as the group of guards and prisoner walked past, but it was more sadness on their faces than anything else.

Mjavan had lost all sense of direction. First the chase through the labyrinthine alleys and than the stuff running through her veins now and disorienting her, she had no idea where she was or where she was going. From time to time, one of the guards whispered to her: “All will be well, don’t be afraid.” but she hardly heard it. Her head felt dim, as if someone had struck it with a club. She knew the feeling well, had lifed through more than one concussion, but she did not remember this happen today. As a matter of fact, she remembered little from the walk through the city. She didn’t remember if they crossed the canal, but they must have, because there was the house the old woman had come out of to welcome the two prisoners last night and there was the tree Mjavan had set against and there, there was the stone she had stared at and remembered as the place where one world turned into another.

Mjavan jerked. No, no, no, she thought, No, everything, but not that. Not total annihilation, not eternal emptiness, not that!

They didn’t stop! They didn’t seem to notice. They didn’t seem to know! They walked, straight through the street, straight towards the barrier that would dissolve them forever.

The poison vanished from Mjavan’s blood as quick as it had rushed through it, at least in her mind. Her arms were still as weak as before. No matter how much she struggled, no matter how much she kicked and fought, the men kept dragging her towards the invisible barrier.

“No!” she screamed, but her vocal cords felt sluggish and only a weak croaking escaped her mouth. “Please, please, no!”

“It will be all right,” one of the men said and patted her floppy hand, “you will be fine.”

Then the border was there. They had reached the stones that should turn into sand but didn’t. And as the world didn’t change, the men didn’t stop.

For the second time, Mjavan passed the barrier and for the third time she expected thunder and lightning and nothing happened. Again, she felt nothing. Again, she saw nothing. No electric fire passed her by, no demon swallowed her whole, no angels sang in the skies. The woman was just dragged through the streets as she was before, as she was now. They walked past the flower pots and the drapes, they walked over mosaics of pebbles and stones, they walk along a street like thousand others.

But Mjavan fought no more. The moment she crossed the barrier, she had slumped in the arms of her captors. Too tired to even think, she didn’t even bother to try to understand this. The city went on, Kaliven went on. It was not an illusion, it was not a trick of the mind. Here, the wall should have been, here the settlement and now, now they walked through the desert heat, over hot sand under the burning sun. Except here, here drapes offered shadow and respite, here a river glinted in the distance, here the ground shimmered in all colours of the rainbow. It was not nothing here, it was not an empty void. It was not her world either, it was just Kaliven. Just Kaliven.

She hardly looked at the building she was pulled into, paid no attention to the room she was brought to, didn’t care about the comfortable bed she lay down on or the barred window overlooking the river. Nothing made any sense anymore. If Kaliven continued like that, was there a world even further along, were there other cities, other people? The thoughts had no time to fully form, as the narcotic pulled her to sleep.

It was morning and the sun shone into her room when Mjavan woke enough to look around. A table stood next to a large bed, a soft mattress and pillow lay on a metal frame that was bolted to the floor. The door was locked, the window barred, the window in the door as well. It was a prison cell, but a comfortable one, more comfortable than any dwelling she had ever called home. Fresh water and a plate of fruit stood on the table.

She did not touch it. She jolted the door and the bars, she kicked against the metal legs of the table and against the walls. She screamed and ripped the sheets, she hammered into the pillow. Finally, she sank back onto the bed and put her head in her hands.

A knock on the door made her head jerk up. A face was in front of the door’s bars, smiling. It was disfigured by the same abscesses Mjavan had on her body and long grey hair hung half over the eyes. Those set in deep recesses and were bloodshot and tired, but their natural light blue still shone through it.

“I am Teccin,” the man said, “I am Coordinator of Strangers for Kaliven.” He laughed as he noticed Mjavan’s confused look, “That means I’m trying to help with the transition of people coming through the barrier. Kaliven is â€" very different than your world.”

“Teccin…” Mjavan mumbled, still slightly groggy from the drug.

“Yes, and like you, I came through the barrier, though it’s been many years for me. - Listen, I’d rather not talk through the door, if you are calm enough? I know, it’s difficult to believe, but nobody will hurt you here.”

Mjavan shook her head. “Teccin, that’s impossible.” Her head fell back into her hands. “Teccin.”

Now it was the old man who was confused. “Is there… is there anything strange about my name? It’s unusual, sure, in your world and in this, but it’s just a name.”

“I left our daughter in the streets. I left her to die.” She had no idea why these were the words that came out of her mouth. She did not know if it was an explanation or an excuse or an apology. Did she feel sorry? She never did before.

“Our daughter? You’re confused, many are who come to Kaliven through the barrier. Maybe, maybe tell me your name and -”

“Mjavan. My name is Mjavan and I betrayed Teccin and abandoned our mutual daughter.”

Teccin hesitated and looked closer at the broken woman in front of him. Whether he recognized her or not, he shrugged the past away. “Kaliven is not the world you came from. Nothing here is like there. People do not hunger here, they do not fear for their life every day of the week. What you need to live, you will receive, what you did once in the past will be forgotten. You will need to learn, learn how to trust, learn how to believe, learn not to fear for your life every hour of every day, but you will learn. It will take time, Mjavan, but it is possible. I learned it and so will you.”

Mjavan shook her head again. “You were always different, Teccin. How can you â€" how can you forgive me?”

Again, only the flicker of recognition passed over Teccin’s face, then he shook it off. “The world made you who you are. You lived in a prison all your life, Mjavan, a prison created by war and pain and hate, by hunger and fear. Kaliven is… Kaliven and the world beyond is hope.”

[Mandle]

Great effort, guys... I will close the contest tomorrow as I suspect there are no further entries incoming... Thinking on the voting system until then.

[Baron]

Yes!  My entry is not the longest!   

[Stupot]

I think Mandle might be waiting for me to post something.

I had a go at a poem, intending it to be quite straight, but because my mind is in the gutter, and I can’t resist a filthy limerick, I tried to be funny. Then it turned nasty*. Posting it isn’t going to win me any PC credibility, so I’m officially out, but if I can clean up the poem a bit, I might post it later as a non-entry.

^{* I’m talking death, scatology and incest… the works.}

[Mandle]

Okay, the contest is now closed.

Sorry for the delay.

And, yes, I was waiting a bit on Stupot, and I really wish he had posted him poem, with several layers of

Spoiler

warnings for the faint of heart, because it was pretty damn funny, in a very offensively hilarious way. Pretty much a "The Aristocrats" joke fitting the theme and also rhyming.

A shame, but oh well.

As we only have two entries, let's keep the voting simple.

Just PM me your favorite of the two. Contestants need not vote as they will just cancel each other out.

Remember that anyone can vote but, given our recent history here, it might just be me and Stu.

Hopefully not though.

Of course, as always, feedback on both stories is very welcome!

Voting open until March 30th so the winner can take advantage of April 1st if they wish.

[close]

[Sinitrena]

And, yes, I was waiting a bit on Stupot, and I really wish he had posted him poem, with several layers of

Spoiler

warnings for the faint of heart, because it was pretty damn funny, in a very offensively hilarious way. Pretty much a "The Aristocrats" joke fitting the theme and also rhyming.

[close]

Wait, Mandle got to read Stu's entry? And you leave us waiting with watering mouths? 

Anyway.

Baron: I remember Jade, she was a very memorable character (while I do not remember the story she featured in and didn't read it again). She is memorable, though not very likable. She's arrogant, violant, selfish - in short, a difficult protagonist to root for. (Not that my Mjavan is nice or easy to root for - why did we end up with too un-likable protagonistst this round?) I found your story confusing at times, mainly because you brushed over a lot of things and basically treated them as if they were known, like what the different species of fairies can and can't do, what characteristics they usually have, what magic they can use, and so on. It didn't make it impossible to follow, just a bit annoying. But it does lead to something that could be a plot hole (or the whole society is really asshole-is): frogs work in the police force, are able to talk and a snake works as a dealer - but ants are slaves? (or magically manipulated - either way, this society seems morally corupt).
There's the minor inconsistency that the fair folk usually doesn't want to mimick humans - but the whole story is about them mimicking humans, the whole concept is based on the fact that the reader can more or less imagine them in the roles and with the abilities (and some more) of humans, with technology or magically equivalent of all things human. In other words, "The Eight Races tend to shy away from mimicking humans" reads like a bold-faced lie.
The connection to the topic felt a bit weak. The town doesn't seem mysterious at all, derilict, dead, maybe a bit brutal (though, only slightly) but not mysterious. At least, the main storytelling part doesn't. The solution in the last chapter feels more mysterious than the whole mystery (it is set up well, though. It's logical). There's one part of the mystery that isn't explained (it's a minor part, but still): Why were all victims alone when they were turned to stone? At first this seems like a vital part of the investigation, but in the end it's irrelevant.
While I think the plot of the story works well enough, I don't think Jade works great as the narrator. I'm sure she's fun to write and to a degree she's fun to read. But overall it might work better being told from Grace's point-of-view, with her reactions to Jane rather than the other way around.

As Mandle pointed out, Baron's and my votes should cancel each other out, so I won't bother sending a PM. You may consider this post as my offical acknowledgement that my points were allocated.