The challenge is to write a story within the 10 levels of nesting. Sort of a Round-Robin ‘Riting in miniature. The term “story” may be interpreted loosely. Experimental fiction and prose poems are also acceptable.
The rules:
> If two (or more) people reply to the same entry at the same level, the story divides, and each comment may be built upon separately.
> The “tree” may branch where it will, except that the 10th nesting level must always close out that story line.
> You may copy a piece of one story to use as the beginning of a new story.
> More than one story may be in progress.
That should do to start us off. This is an experiment, so don’t be afraid to branch out have some fun with the format.
STORY 1
“…we commit our dearly beloved, Captain Jasper Ives, to the empty gulf of space, that his body may remain undisturbed in the celestial deeps, and his soul may ascend to Paradise. Amen.”
Jason Nakamura bowed his head and sighed. He hadn’t known the captain well, being newly assigned to the Lucy West, but several of the crew had, and their muffled sobs sounded oddly loud in the cramped room. He’d seemed pleasant and fair on the few occasions they’d spoken, and by all accounts he was a good man.
Unfortunately, a rupturing hull plate didn’t care how many medals you’d won or how many good deeds you’d done, only how long it would take before your blood boiled.
First Officer Grimm (Jason still couldn’t picture her as Captain) shut the book and cleared her throat. “I know most of you would prefer to pay your respects at greater length, but we lost a lot of supplies and fuel when the meteoroid struck. We’ll have to divert from our planned route and land on Amalthea. The station there ought to have materiel enough to get us ship-shape in a couple of weeks.”
Amalthea. Jason clenched his fist until he felt the dig of his fingernails, diverting his mind to the pain in order to steer the emotions from his face. An old playground trick, now a reflex, one of the many legacies he still carried from being the offworld kid at an Earth school. “You should have the chance to be with your own kind,” his parents had said, “some time to make friends in your own age group. You need the kind of stability star-chasing can’t give you. You need to have a home.” He had learned quickly to hide his misery from them, easy enough to do in brief, stilted exchanges over the vidcom. He could see how deep their hopes were for him, but they couldn’t see that space was his only real home, always would be.
His mind shifted back to the present as he looked out into the fullness of empty space in the direction of Captain Jasper Ives’s final journey. For a moment he almost envied the man. There were worse ways to die in space. The thought returned Jason to the problem at hand. Amalthea. Probably no one there knew he was aboard the Lucy West. Not yet. That advantage wouldn’t last long. Information spread as easily as space dust on patch&plug bases like Amalthea. Word of his presence would travel around the station faster than the roughnecks could strip out Lucy’s damaged hull plates. Two weeks. How in the name of dark energy could he avoid the Cornucopia for that long?
((I spent ten minutes puzzling over this, then five minutes laughing out loud. Cornucopia… Amalthea… Brilliant.))
[((Thanks. I thought of that line early on and had to figure out how to get there. ~Rebecca))]
When he left the room, Jason was already turning over his options. There weren’t many. The Lucy would arrive at Amalthea in less than 48 hours. The ship’s name, classification and roster would be logged in the base computers… password-locked, of course, but that didn’t matter to an organization like Cornucopia. The infamous Horn of Plenty had their claws sunk into every profitable ring-trawling operation on the inner moons. And once they knew he was there, they’d come looking for him.
There was no chance he could fight them off. He could handle himself in a street scuffle, but Cornucopia would be sending well-armed professionals. The Lucy carried exactly one weapon, and that was an antique, decorative saber used for various ceremonies. Something chipped out of flint would be more useful.
Running wasn’t an option either on a 262-km-diameter rock. He could, conceivably, get off Amalthea, but only if there were other ships there with room for more people.
If he told the rest of the crew… He pushed the thought out of his mind. If they knew he owed the Cornucopia something (even though, technically, his father had incurred the debt), they’d drop him off on their doorstep with a smile and wave.
He didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t sleep that night, even though he knew it might be his last night on a proper bed. He was too afraid. Every time he tried to close his eyes, he could imagine D’Crope’s face. D’Crope. Barry D’Crope. D’Crope was the leader of the Cornucopia. He had a face covered with scars, and it struck fear into everyone on
the planet ofAmalthea. You see, D’Crope took a souvenir from everyone he met. Jason remembered the one time he met D’Crope. It was noontime on Amalthea. He had been but a small child. He had heard a knock on the door of the house they were staying in. They had only been staying for one night. He opened the door, and found the hideously scarred and ugly D’Crope staring at him.“Hello,” D’Crope said menacingly, “Are you the young Nakamura?”
“Yes,” Jason had responded.
“I need to see your father. Is he here?”
“Yes.” Then D’Crope walked away, into Jason’s father’s study. Jason heard the mumblings of a conversation, and then a single shot. D’Crope walked out of the room. He picked up Jason.
“Well, boy,” He said manically, “Your father’s done. I’ll just take a souvenir from you, and be off.” Jason shivered, and closed his eyes. He felt a sharp pain, and then D’Crope put him down on the hard floor. When he opened his eyes, D’Crope was gone. And blood was pooled up next to him.
Jason opened his eyes. He tried to calm himself. The memory of the day D’Crope took his left ear was the worst he had. And now he would see D’Crope again. And he still didn’t have the money. What would D’Crope take this time? His other ear? His life?
((Amalthea is a moon, actually, not a planet.))
((Oops. I guess we can edit after it gets to the tenth nest…))
[No need to wait. It’s corrected. ~Rebecca.]
The crew dispersed around the ship. The piloting team went to the control room, preparing to land the ship on Amalthea. As for Jason, he went back to his cabin. He sat in solitude for a few minutes, thinking about the Captain. He tried to make a wish for his soul. After a while, he gave up. No such thing as magic. No such thing as a life after death. Nothing left of the Captain. And now … Grimm was Captain. He still couldn’t believe it. In theory, of course, Grimm was next in line to be captain. But he hadn’t thought it would happen so soon. He wandered if she was ready. Still, it couldn’t be helped. He expected that the whole crew would be promoted up now. Little consolation, of course. Jason began to put his supplies in his bag. His money, his communicator, a few other useful items. He could feel the turbulence of descending. Even after several hundred years of spaceflight, they still hadn’t mastered it. Accidents … still happened.
((I assume you’re continuing from mine, not Rebecca’s?))
Indeed. Good starting point, by the way.
((What’s going on here???))
Each header comment (the one on the far left) begins a story. The replies continue it until the commenting levels run out. Whoever writes the tenth level has to finish the story.
For example, if you wanted to continue the existing story, you would “reply” to mine. Or if you wanted to go a different direction, you could reply to POSOC’s. If that particular story isn’t your cup of tea, you can simply start a new one, using the main comment box.
It’s kind of like RRRs, except contained within the nesting levels of the opening comment. More short story than novel.
Awesome!!!! *starts to get excited*
Story 2
Nobody in East Corntassel disagreed that Nandina Sprig knew how to set a fine table. Town and county folk alike drooled in their dreams over the thought of the refreshments to be found at the tea parties amongst the knot gardens of Sprig Hall: the golden scones studded with freshly picked berries; the light and tender brioches with their subtle sweetness; the heirloom jam made from a recipe never divulged outside the Sprig lineage but some said must have been stolen from the faeries. It transcended the very concept of jam. Only one cloud dimmed the otherwise delightful prospect of a leisurely hour spent gratifying one’s palate with dainties of the highest order.
That one cloud was Nandina Sprig herself.
Nandina Sprig was not too bad, in herself, but she was a Sprig. Sprigs had interesting ideas, taught their children these ideas, and disowned all family members who disagreed. These ideas involved the concept that guests are- Not sacred, they were very religious, but very near it. They would, therefore, go any distance to make everyone comfortable, and thus excelled being a host or hostess. Not counting, of course, the fact that they were probably the worst people ever to be near; and near was within eye, or ear, shot.
Miss Sprig had a voice that almost defied description. It had the force of a foghorn and the pitch of a poorly-tuned piccolo, but that was the least of it. There were all sorts of little pauses and inappropriately timed gaps between words and phrases that seemed calculated, in some fiendishly subtle way, to scramble the mind of the listener beyond all recognition.
Even worse than her voice was the way she used it. She said things that would undoubtedly have been insults – advice about subjects a person with a scrap of humanity wouldn’t have mentioned in public, biting criticisms regarding the things her guests held dear – except that she said them in such an enthusiastic and motherly manner.
People often wondered, speaking in hushed tones on the veranda after the party, if Nandina Sprig really thought she was being pleasant and helpful, or if she took malicious the perplexed, vaguely-offended-but-not-sure-why expressions on the faces of her guests. If she hadn’t done such good preserves, everyone agreed, they would never come back. Certainly not. Well… maybe.
((Ha! I love it. You went in the direction I was thinking but even better; more subtle and complex. I was thinking she was the only honors graduate in the history of Studge Academy.))
Several dozen years ago, Nandina Sprig had been engaged to marry a young man, possessed of a great fortune, to say nothing of his three castles. All had gone well until it came time for the betrothed to meet. After the first afternoon spent in the presence of his bride-to-be, the unfortunate youth had hurled himself from the tallest tower in Sprig Hall, which was by no means deficient in the matter of tall towers. The more kindly-disposed East Corntasselites claimed that it had been the greatest disappointment of her life, but this was by no means the widely-held opinion, particularly since his death managed to leave Nandina Sprig even richer than before. It was rumored that she had great caverns full of gold and silver and precious jewels and possibly (said the more imaginative children) even a dragon or two, and this rumor, combined with the cakes, was what kept people attending her garden parties and balls and afternoon teas.
And the people would return, again and again, for, they said, “There really are no finer parties or teas. And I’m sure I could stand Nandina Sprig for another hour If I could only have more of her delicious lemon cakes.” Now, Zettie Hale and her husband Owen were some of those people and had said similar things all their lives. Owen was in the middle of saying something similar when Zettie shouted “Aha!” much to Owen’s befuddlement.
“I know what ought to be done about Nandina!” exclaimed Zettie.
“Well, what is that?”
“We should hold a contest,” she said, “We could stage it as being charitable or helpful to Nandina but it would really be all for our own sake.”
“How would a contest help us to stand Nandina Sprig?”
“See. It would be a contest to find her a suitable suitor. One who enjoys Nandina’s company but is nicer for the rest of us to put up with.”
Owen was somewhat skeptical that this would actually work but Zettie insisted and they brought their proposal to Nandina herself. It is hard to tell with Nandina but Owen and Zettie believed she agreed that it would be an excellent plan.
Unfortunately, they hit a small snag, viz. Every suitable bachelor in East Corntassel had heard a lot about Nandina. Zettie and Owen dug through genealogical records, chatted with the sons of minor nobles, and even sent a letter to the Emir of Ctesiphon, but the responses they got were always in a similar vein.
“Well, I know my father has been encouraging me to marry soon, but… you see… wonderful woman, of course… erm… there’s all sorts of financial things to straighten out… and we’re arranging a betrothal already… excellent lemon cakes, though. Goodbye!”
Late one night, the prospects seemed especially grim. Owen had drunk a glass of sherry and fallen asleep in front of the fire, leaving his bride to pore over letters and documents into the wee hours. As the village clock struck three, Zettie slumped over the table with a groan, scattering bits of sealing wax and ribbon onto the floor.
It was then that she beheld, through a haze of exhaustion, a little brown man standing on the tabletop. He was dressed in scraps of autumn leaves and brightly colored silk, and he wore a sword made from a long sliver of glass with one end wrapped in wool.
Oh, Zettie thought muzzily. I must be dreaming. “You’re the tomten, aren’t you?” she muttered. “The one Oma Kirsten always talked about. You were supposed to come with the house, like some sort of rodent…”
“My name is Nissa, dear lady,” he piped. “And I am most certainly not a rat, mouse, capybara or any other creature of that description. I’m here to help.”
Zettie frowned suddenly. “This is ridiculous, isn’t it? Nobody believes in faeries anymore. Although there is that rumor about the Sprig heirloom jam…”
“No, no, no, no, no!” The little creature grew very agitated, jumping up and down and jabbering unintelligibly in Holmsch. “Schagensie nichtdasen! Shehrschlecht! Talk like that is why we do not show ourselves anymore. But! Your grandmother was very kind to me, and so I’m willing to give you a bit of advice about your… friend.”
Zettie blinked. It was a dream, after all. Best to just follow along and wait to wake up. Who knew? She might actually get a few good ideas. “You mean Nandina Sprig?”
The faerie twitched, then subsided into muttering. “Yes… yes… indeed. I believe I’ve found a man who knows nothing of her… yet would love her if he knew her. Here.”
Nissa unfolded one of the maps on Mrs. Hale’s desk. “Here. West Corntassel. Five miles outside the Iron Place.” He stuck a pin into the faded paper half an inch from the dot representing Morchester. “A man with a great title, but who lost his fortune years ago. He comes from a line of great gourmets. I’ve walked his dreams o’nights. He’d sell his soul for one of the Green Lady’s cakes. And!” Nissa flourished his sword. “He. Is. Stone deaf.”
Hmm, Zettie thought. A deaf man… Why didn’t I think of that? If he can’t hear her, he’ll enjoy her company more. But… “Green Lady? Do you mean Nandina?”
“Names…” the little tomten muttered cryptically. “Names and titles… the old cradle-snatch and switch. There! West Corntassel! Remember my words! His name is Victor Iraschild.”
Whoopsie… I guess I must have gotten carried away.
((I posted a new story beginning here, but my comments on the B&R thread are already posted and the story here isn’t. Is it possible that somehow it didn’t send?))
Perhaps. Anyway, we haven’t seen it.
How do you “nestle”? I can’t figure out how . . .
oops. I just saw the reply button.
New Story
Their scaly wings and talons swarmed him until he could see nothing else. “For Zeus’s sake!” he shouted at the harpies. The song continued to make his head swim. His vision blurred. The stench filled his nose. Where is she? Oh great. He lost her – the one – and he angered dad (yikes!); oh, and don’t forget getting surrounded by these dang harpies!
The song.
How can he know the song?
“No!” a soft, feminine voice screamed.
He slumped against the wall, unconscious.
When he woke up,some harpies were talking amongst themselves. He also saw his dad lying nearby, and-her? What was going on here? He tried to talk to them, but instead of speaking English, he spoke French. He couldn’t understand what he himself was saying. This was getting scary. Especially the fact that now he thought everything in Spanish, so he didn’t even know what he was thinking. He attacked the nearest harpie. Luckily, he fought in Chinese, so he could use kung fu.
Sounds very Douglas Adams-esque.
((Hmmm… How do you fight in a language?))
((I think it’s intended to be funny.))
Ok. That humor thing was never … one of my strongpoints.
After finally finishing off the last of the bird-like creatures, he tried to revive his father – without words. He tried to scream for help, but he didn’t even know if he said it because it was French. She was already breathing again, just unconscious. His father, on the other hand . . .
There he laid down and did not get up for a very long time.
Please, post this again as a reply to my story so that the levels don’t get messed up.
((“He fought in Chinese, so he could use kung fu…” Brilliant!))
Wow. That went in a COMPLETELY different direction than I thought it would. It’s great!
((That was very funny))
Suddenly, his father woke up,”What are we doinghere!?” He was furious with ignorance. The problem was that his son shared the same ignorance.
“I don’t know,” Eric said as he rubbed his eyes,”we’re in some fairy-tale…”
“Fairy-tale!? You’ve been reading too many comic books!” ((I’m gonna’ go first person as the boy)) I was surprised that my father wasn’t absolutely furious. But then again…
“WHERE IS SHE!?”
“I don’t know, father, she probably was brought somewhere else…” I waited for a barrage of angry comments.
“Well, I guess we should go get her!” He said, happily. So they started their way through the thick forest. The woods beamed with strange, mythical creatures. Pixies, faeries, harpies, small griffons, and even a unicorn!
“Father, you cannot deny the creature before your eyes! It is magnificent! Is it not?”
“It’s not real, son.”
“But, father! It is right here! How can you not believe in its existence!”
“We are in an isolation tank.”
“What!?”
“But how do get out?” My father asked himself.
I could still not believe it.
“They are projecting these images into our head. So how do we stop the flow of images?”
((Sorry, got to go!))
“Wait.” Eric said. “How do we know that we are in an isolation tank. Maybe we are in an alternate universe. Or maybe we were in an isolation tank and now we’re out. Maybe we transferred isolation tanks. Since we cannot determine the status of the isolation tanks, we should live in whichever is better.”
A centaur came and whacked his dad over the head with a club, knocking him out.
“Well, I guess that’s the other universe.”
Eric decided to set up camp for the night. As he was falling asleep, he wondered where She was. He could never know until tomorrow.
I don’t get it.
Ditto. Story 3 makes very little sense to me.
Well, it’s an experiment. Story 1 is turning out to be gritty s.f., 2 seems to be shaping up as a Victorian faerie tale, and 3… a randomized virtual-reality-Greek-myth-sort-of-thing.
They’re in a tank where people are controlling what they see… They have to get out and save the chosen-one for whatever reason…
*in sing-song voice*
Looooove it! It’s comepletely different! I was thinking like a Percy Jackson sorta thing, but I love how this turns the story in a different direction. *HAPINESS*
Sorry that it’s overdone. I needed to get that out.
You seem to like the story a lot, my twin…(We share B’days!)
Ya, that’s really cool. I could never come up with something like that on my own!
That’s the best part about this whole writing challenge
Rhyming Poem
…you know you love them…
[this doesn’t really go with the rules but I think you can drag this out pretty far :D]
she looked at her cat
and picked up her hat
and stopped at the door,
looked under the floor,
she went to her room
and grandfather’s tomb,
she went to the sea
and came back to me.
she looked for an answer,
she looked for a rhyme
she looked for a rhythm, a reason, the time.
her hair was pitch black,
and ran down her back,
her heart was so true
her deep eyes so blue,
she looked for the bead,
she planted her seed,
she watered it well,
but no one could tell.
she looked for an ending,
she looked for the truth,
she looked for her past, the link, her youth.
It was still called the Kingdom of Wiselove, although no king had reigned from the lichen-speckled ruin on the heights for many a year. The people there were honest, sun-browned and practical, more given to ruminating about the coming harvest, or how many piglets the sow would bear, than why the plants grew and what the pigs thought about. But once in a while, there was a child born there who was set apart from the rest, one with peculiar ideas and an almost hungry look in her eye. The people of Wiselove would answer her questions as best they could, but as she grew older this would become more difficult. She’d progress from “Why is the sky blue?” to “Why do people fight in order to make peace?” or even more awkward subjects. Around age nine or ten, she might start to do things that others couldn’t understand at all. It would get to the point where the old men, who still remembered the reign of the last king before everything changed, would spit and touch iron as she passed by. And then, descending from on high like a host of clammy, silent angels, the Philosophers would come for her…
The Philosophers were a race of super-beings, which were dedicated to pure thought. They were said to be made from the questions of the children who eventually joined them. The Philosophers had not heard this theory, though. They would have then said that they therefore were made of their own thoughts, and then expanded it to everything is made of it’s own thoughts. After taking the child, they would send en into the sperator. This device would separate ens mind from ens body, and turn en into a Philosopher. They’d spend weeks out in the cold darkness of the now barren, but once beautiful land of Kniht. They’d formulate their own theories about how the universe came to be, and why things occur. When they had done enough to make a universe like the real one, a golden door would open, and they’d be welcomed into the ranks of the Philosophers. But one girl never came back…
*revies thread*
This girl was not meant to be a Philosopher. She’d never asked a question in her life. She just asked normal questions, such as:
“When will the rain come?”
“Why don’t the plants grow in winter?”
And other such mundane things.
But she had a twin. A twin who looked precisely identical to her. A twin who was meant to be a Philosopher. A twin who now was left behind on Wiselove, with those superstitious old men.
The one-time subjects of the long-gone king soon discovered that the Philosophers had made their first recorded mistake. They didn’t pause to wonder how this had happened, but instead ostracized the girl, who soon took shelter in the ancient castle, where the Wiselovers still feared to tread.
She did not know that inside the castle was the last remaining portal to Kniht.
The twin wandered the castle, trying to find someone. She wanted to ask questions. There was no one to ask. So she began to ask them out loud, just to the air. Slowly, she began to go insane.
For many years, the twin still meandered through the castle’s decreipt stone halls, inquiring of the austere, faded portraits why things were. She did not find anything especially odd within the ruined palace- at least not for many seasons past her advent. One day, the twin came upon a trapdoor in the storerooms ceilling. She climbed through, finding a whole unexplored level. “Why do doors always go to the same place every time?” she wondred to the empty place. She walked doen the long hall. At the end, she came to a closed door. Even with her ruined mind, she could tell there was something unusual there. Something magical…
She wandered into the land of Kniht. She didn’t notice that by passing through, she had destroyed the passageway back. Her mind became too warped for that.
She saw the barren land. She saw a lone figure, weeping, wandering toward her.
The figure was clothed in a tattered black cloak, with the hood pulled to partially conceal their face. Even in the dark and with the hood, the twin thought somehow, it seemed familiar. But she did not know where she had seen the figure before.
The black-cloaked person did not see the twin. They sat down on a rock fifty yards from where the twin stood.
“It’s not working,” they muttered. “I can’t go back. Surely no one has ever stayed so long here. Why can’t I go back?” The person’s voice sounded young, and female.
The twin, hardly realizing where she was or what had happened, approached them, perhaps vaguely looking to comfort them. As the twin neared, the weeping person looked up sharply in fright. As she did this, her hood fell away.
O great and wonderous thread, do not die!!!!
Come To This Thread Or You Will Die!
This is cool! *wants someone to begin a story*
Reposted from Books In Progress:
(Background information: the Celestials, which are like gods, have just destroyed all humans and everything they created. Several kids have seen this future event in a dream.)
“It is done,†repeated Tharys, her voice rising. “All of humanity, all their accomplishments, memories of the past and dreams of the future. Gone. Is that what you wanted, Quatlin? Is that what your infinite wisdom has led you to do?†Silvery tears brimmed in Tharys’ deep blue eyes. She was a beauty, with perfectly chiseled features and robes that shimmered every color imaginable. But now her expression was pure despair, enough to make a mortal dissolve into weeping madness. If there had been any mortals left.
Quatlin turned his calm grey gaze on the goddess of the arts. “It had to be done,†he whispered, with a trace of guilt. “If we’d left them to their own devices, they would have cruelly destroyed each other and everything around them. This was the humane thing to do.â€
Tears flowed down Tharys’ ivory cheeks. “But the humans were also capable of great things. They were ingenious at times – you of all Celestials should know that. Just ask Loravo or Serasha. Ask Lyetan. Ask me.â€
Quatlin tightened his grip on his Celestial eye, which had the form of a crystal gazing ball. “The Celestial council voted to destroy them,†he said. “It is for the good of all. We have done it, and there is nothing you can do.â€
Cyra jerked awake, trembling. The image of cities falling filled her mind with terror, but the forest rising up made the world look so much better. What if that was to happen? What if all that humankind had made fell away into dust? She pushed that thought away, and rose to prepare for the new day. If she was a prophet, well… prophets weren’t exactly accepted in this time.
Tharys stood upon the Edge of the World, looking down at the green, beautiful planet before her. It shone with the glories of nature, a planet healed, a planet remade, a planet made whole from the brutal injuries done to it by humankind. It was perfect. At last, perfect.
It was horrible.
Tracks of silver stained her perfect cheeks. She turned, walking away from the glorious natural wonder behind her. She couldn’t bear to look back and see what Quatlin, on the orders of the Council, had created. Had destroyed.
She knew the goodness of mortals, perhaps better than any other Celestial did. Hers had been the painters, the actors, the poets, the authors, the sculptors, the dreamers. It was she who had guided da Vinci’s hand, and whispered in Shakespeare’s ear. It was her who had turned Monet’s attention to the water lilies. She had heard the first stirrings of every great musical composition, and seen plays and films that had made her laugh and weep.
And now?
She stared down at the star-studded skyscape below her that made up the realm of the Celestials. Now, the dreams were gone. Humanity had not been perfect- far from it. She knew as well as anybody that as well as capable of such amazing dreams and goodness, every human held the power as well to create ultimate evil. And that is why she had envied mortals.
Celestials cannot change. It was what she had been told even as a miniature godling. Celestials have their duties. To be the guider of daylight dreams was hers, and she could not change. But mortals- mortals were capable of anything. Had been capable of everything.
Behind her, the planet rejoiced. Tharys wept for what Earth did not know it had lost.
Cyra sat on her bed, thinking about her recent dream. It had been strange, seeing those two people. Who were they? They had seemed to have an unearthly glow around them. Looking at her clock, it wasn’t time to get up, so Cyra got back into bed.
Quatlin sat at the council table. “It has been done. The world has been rid of humanity. Nature rejoices and revels in its greatest splendor.†Cheering erupted around the table. But a few gods looked distraught and paralyzed. They moved toward each other secretly as Quatlin talked on. In whispered voices they spoke.
“What shall we do? Our specialties had everything to do with people. We have nothing to do anymore.â€
“We could bring them back…â€
“No, that would be obvious. What else could we do?â€
“I’ve been keeping a close eye on the octopuses. They seem close to developing technology.â€
“You mean… that we could create a new dominant species?â€
“They’d never allow it!â€
“They wouldn’t have to know!â€
“A new humanity under the sea? It could work…â€
“The sea gods would have to be warned.â€
“Under the sea bed. There aren’t any gods of that.â€
†This just sounds so strange.â€
“What else can we do?†Quatlin finished his speech. The group of rebel gods went separate ways.
“Absolutely not,†said Schilor, god of the sea. He was a large man that gave off an aura of power, with flowing green robes and a foam-white beard braided with seaweed. Now his turquoise eyes were like chips of Arctic ice. His Celestial eye, a silver dolphin in a magically floating bubble of water, squeaked in agreement.
“Have you seen how badly the humans polluted the ocean even when they didn’t live in it? They saw it as an endless waste disposal, a place where they could dump their trash and it would never bother anyone again. Well, if they actually lived there – â€
“They’d be closer to the magma,†said Quatlin thoughtfully. “They could drill a hole down there, and have a garbage incinerator. They could use the magma for power, too.â€
“And what happens when that runs out?†challenged Nalissa, the land goddess. She cradled her Celestial eye – a baby mole – in the crook of her brown-robed arm. “Face it, Quatlin – whatever dominant race we create is just going to use up their resources and kill themselves again.â€
Cyra tossed and turned, unable to sleep. She sat up, and tiptoed out the door, down the hall, and into the main area of the house. The moonlight danced through the window, and Cyra sat in the beam of light, contemplating what she had seen.
“What if we had multiple dominant races? Ones who lived together in harmony, helping each other to do things another race couldn’t do? We could even take several humans before the world is destroyed, children that might understand what we are doing–”
The voice in Cyra’s mind shorted out as her brain snapped out of the trance. She looked up, to see wispy streaks in the moonlight. They aligned, creating a misty, glowing form, which extended a hand toward the girl. Not fully awake, she reached out in turn, and and was sucked away in a shimmering cloud of gold, transported across time and space.
“Have the humans been chosen?” Quatlin asked stiffly.
“Yes,” Tharys said, “I chose a girl myself.”
“Now the new races will be created.”
Cyra stood atop the hill in her dream, caught in a state between awake and hypnotized. Around her, 19 other children watched as a glowing figure strided up the hill. She waved a hand, and the children’s minds woke.
“You witness the dawn of a new world,” she said, and they turned to see.
Fishes, mammals, reptiles, animals of all kinds appeared as the glowing people conjured animals from the air around them. They took special time on 5 different, new races.
People with scales, flippers, and tails, designed for the water. Furred, stocky, clawed people, who were better off in the forest. Lithe, sleek people with wings who would spend their time in the sky and high in treetops. Ones who were short, with scaly skin, modeled for life on the windy plains. Taller people with webbed feet and hands, who would make homes by the sea.
It was truly amazing seeing life spring from an uninhabited world.
The woman turned to Cyra and the children.
“Now you wonder what your purpose is?” she said, staring at a boy who shivered when the woman spoke his question. “You all remember your race, which fell apart when they destroyed their world. Your job is to protect these people, and insure their survival — in the long term. You and your descendants will make sure the 5 special races live in harmony, depending on each other, not destroying the others in a race to power or resources. The fate of these races is in your hands. Shape it well.”
Tharys shimmered back into existence. “I’ve warned them,” she announced. “Now all we have to do is wait.”
Dekali, goddess of the sky, absorbed the view of the lifeless planet from her eagle Celestial eye. “But everything’s already dead,” the winged woman pointed out. “You went back in time … will that change the future?”
Everyone looked at Lyetan, god of life and death, who had the best grasp of time. “I think,” he said slowly, “that this time, this world, will change according to what the children do in the past. It’s like if you went back in time and rescued a man who was meant to die. The future would change to accommodate him. So Tharys is right, now we just have to wait.” As he spoke, his features shifted so he looked like a baby, a gangly teenager, a frail old man.
They all gazed intently into their Celestial eyes, watching the past and present evolve.
Someone add to the story!
Vinya’s tentacles waved gently in the dark as she glided amid the stars. All around her, the rest of her fleet moved as one, a flowing stream of colors and patterns. The giant space squids were migrating.
Her skin sparkled and flickered between shades of azure as she continued on her journey. She brushed against the other giant space squids, sending a signal among them. The tribe slowed as they neared their planet, the migration coming to an end.
Give it up.
Well, the RRRs never stay alive, so I figured something shorter might be able to hang on….
Sorry.
Dead thread! *waves arms*
Somebody post!
Lyra cowered, shivering in the corner of the cage, unable to resist the scientists that poured chemicals into her fragile body, though she hid her face with her scaly taloned claws. Her genetically engineered wings didn’t warm her in the slightest, and she was wracked by another violent shudder. She remembered the chain of events that had brought her here. How could she have ever forgotten the cold sneer of the business man as her mother gave her over. It was burned into her memory forever.
“Mommy? Mommy, where am I going! I want to stay with you!” But Lyra’s mother looked away. “I’m sorry. They demanded you to be turned over immediately. I told you how it was after 2012. I’m afraid you were exposed to too much radiation.”
“But–” Lyra was cut short by one of the business man’s hands enclosing her mouth. It was cold and lifeless. The robot’s hand was cold and lifeless, and burned against Lyra’s cheeks. She watched in silence as the business man handed something to her mother, who then walked away. “Come,” the business man said in a monotone. “We need to place you under high security. And start testing immediately.” The business man gripped Lyra tight as I tried to squirm around and get back to my mother.
The business man threw her in the back of his immaculate white van and got in the front. Lyra was tossed around the back, since there were no seats, as the business man took tight corners at high speeds. Finally, just as the sun was setting, Lyra arrived at the lab. It was a small blue building that looked completely harmless, just another building on Mt. Garrel. But that was just a disguise. What lied within was beyond your most horrible nightmares.
Once inside the doors, you never got back out again, unless you were killed. There was a large room, completely tiled in white. Two hallways led off on either side of the Check-In desk. Above the desk, the motto was engraved, “Facio Orbis Terrarum A Melior Locus, To Make The World A Better Place,” Lyra gazed up at the motto, wide-eyed. Like all of the Gifted, she had the ability to translate any language instantly. Along the hallways, streams of white-coated scientists went from room to room. Lyra got an occasional glimpse inside the rooms. A boy with a beak, a young girl, no more than three years old, lifting an entire ton, twins lifting objects around the room without touching anything, and many more.
The business man went to the Check-In desk, and presented his card to the robot-woman manning the desk. “One Gifted, needing high-security. Positive for experimentation.” The robot woman presented the business man with the original card and another. “914 is available,” she said in a monotone. The business man nodded, and gripped Lyra tightly again, heading down the left hallway.
From that, well it just went downhill for Lyra. She was injected with newly obtained dragon DNA, along with all the unidentified DNA and RNA. Soon, she grew wings and scales and talons replaced her once beautiful hands. The days streamed together, just one shot after another. She came to know the other Gifted around her. There was Alo, the boy with the beak, who had since been made to grow bird wings, and Iris, a girl with cat whiskers, paws, ears and tail. They had both arrived the same way; young, confused, and hurt at their parents for just handing them over like this.
A sudden darkness jolted Lyra out of her thoughts. The lab had closed for the night. Iris reached through the bars of the cage and fingered Lyra’s hand. “Wow…” she whispered. “Those scientists are really going far. “That’s not the worst of it,” I whispered back. “I think I’m growing scales on my face, too. And my wings seem bigger, I can span the cage with them.”