..............

The Hotel

At 10pm, the night before his 21st birthday, James found himself crawling on the coarse carpet of the hallway, struggling to breathe and desperate to escape the cold. Her cackling trailed behind him. Frost sprawled on the walls, chasing him. On all fours, he turned the corner and eyed the stairwell at the end of the hallway.

It was 7:50pm when he had waltzed into the empty town. He and his buddies were planning to commemorate his coming of age with a trip to Vegas, but of course his car had to break down halfway there. He walked half a mile with a duffle bag over his shoulder and a dead phone in his pocket. The dim, cloudless sky floated overhead and a chill wind clung onto his back as he made his way down the sidewalk. A flickering and crooked welcome sign hung outside the hotel.

The lobby was a small coffee table and a pair of chairs two feet away from the counter. By 7:55 he was talking to the receptionist. A single light dangling from the ceiling illuminated her drawn out eyes, the water stains on the table and the worn, faded upholstery of the chairs. She mumbled something about her shift ending and threw him his room key before grabbing her coat off the rack behind her and dashing out the door.

He trudged up the stairs and made his way to his room at the end of the hall. It was small and modestly furnished. The same trio of a coffee table and two chairs, along with a dresser that met him at waist-level and a twin-sized bed greeted him.

At 8:10, the curtains on the opposite side of the room ruffled, spilling dust into the air. He took four steps past the coffee table and parted the curtains. The window was closed and had not been cleaned in some time. A thin film rested on its exterior, blurring and obscuring the outside world. He threw open the window. Down below lay a neglected garden with a derelict fountain in the center. The hotel, he discovered, was C-shaped and allowed him to see across to the other end. All the other rooms were dark.

He saw her at 8:45. While he rummaged through his duffle bag, a voice passed by his ear. He stood up and looked out the window. There, in the room opposite his, was a stunning brunette in a pink, knee-length dress brushing her hair. An ethereal glow surrounded her. She caught him staring and rapped the window pane with her knuckles. A knock sounded at his door. An empty hallway was on the other side. Turning back, she winked and waved at him, beckoning him with a curling finger.

It was almost 9 when his hope for an unforgettable birthday was restored. He raced down the hallway, turning the corner and following the curve of the hotel. The dingy, yellowed wallpaper warmed his blood like sunshine and his heart pounded as he passed room after identical room. He panted as the hallway stretched farther away into darkness, growing colder with every step. The wallpaper peeled in front of him, ribbons rolling to the floor. Weakness flooded his legs. He collapsed, breathing hard.

His half-open eyes saw a pair of feet. They were pale and luminous. Her voice swept across his ears as a soft laughter. Cold invaded his body. He watched her toes grow dull and become a decaying mound of flesh but could not scream. Scrambling, he turned around and mustered what strength he had left to propel himself away from her. Her footsteps thrummed behind him, reverberating against the narrowing walls.

At 11pm, James found himself in the darkness of the street outside the hotel, and he ran and ran and ran.

123

BEAUTIFUL. Deeply melancholic. And totally my jam. *___*

Red of wine

On the road late at night, walking on the road towards the next location. A bulk of shadow on the road ahead caught my eye. As I walk towards it, under the moonlight, it became clear that it was a child. I hurried to the child. I tried to wake the child, though no response but I could hear the feint of breathing. At least the child is alive. I noticed bandages on the wrist of the child and a fresh wound on the forehead.

I carried the child and continued on with more haste. Moments later, I saw an old couple with lanterns in their hands approaching from distant. They appear to be worried and anxious. "Thank you, kind sir. You've found the child!' said the old lady. The old man continued "The child is from the orphanage that we are managing just not too far from here." Together, we went back to the orphanage, I told the old couple I was traveling to collect interesting tales. They told me that the lady that own the orphanage would be please to meet and thank me for the trouble.

The next day, I was invited for dinner to the estate of the owner of the orphanage, Lady O. Our meeting was great, I told her about the tales and encounters thus far as she attentively listened. Over the next few days, I spent my time walking around town talking to the folks gathering inspiration for the next tale. At night, I went for dinner at the estate and told her about the happenings in the day whilst she was always enjoying a glass of red wine.

One night. Lady O mentioned that today's meeting would be a short one as she has matters to attend to. After which, i went for a drink at a nearby tavern. Later, after rounds at the tavern I was vomiting by the road, sobering up. Then I notice, Lady O by herself, leaving the estate with a cloak over her head and a lantern in hand. Curious, I followed secretly behind.

After awhile we arrived at the orphanage. What business would she have here late at this hour and in such secrecy. Had something bad happened? Not wanting to announce myself, I went to the side and peeked through the window.

There, Lady O met with a child, subsequently they moved into a side room, I followed. In the room, Lady O sat down with the child. She starting humming a soothing tune and started peeling the apple with a fruit knife. She gave the peeled apple to the child. At that moment, I gasped. Lady O took the fruit knife and slit the hand of the child. Letting out blood into a bowl. After filling the small bowl, she sucks on the wrist, seemingly to stop the bleeding and bandaged the child, all the while humming to the tune.

As the humming stopped and the child fallen asleep on the table. In an instant Lady O appeared in front of the window. I fall on my behinds, Lady O pushed open the window, grabbed onto me over the low walls and pulled me right into the room.

"You are a curious one, aren't you, Mr Cruse?" Lady O asked. I was just speechless, at the moment, All things suddenly made sense now, the bandage on the wrist, the secrecy, the child I met must be running away, but why? The humming, could it be, to hypnotize the child? As the child appear to have no resistance.

"Why?" I mustered a reply. "Why?, Why must you bother into the business of a higher being, a Vampire!" A vampire? "But . . . a child?" I asked. "Oh, believe me, I have tried. Animals, Men, Women, But! They just do not taste like a child's. The red and scent of their liquid is most seductive and unclouded" As she was replying, she turned around and poured the bowl of blood into a wine barrel close by and close the lid. Licking the last remaining drop of blood off the bowl, not wanting to waste.

Continuing on the conversation "Furthermore, I do not take their lives, I just need their blood, for the wine. I pick them off the streets, give them a shelter, care for them." "Care for them?" I commented ironically. It struck me then that a folk in the tavern told me of how Lady O cared for the orphans after the parents of the children had been murdered by bandits over the years. "Horrible deaths" as he excruciates, cases which remains unresolved. Could it be such coincidence or is she behind everything?

"I have been watching you since the day you arrive, Mr Cruse. It seems our encounter have to come to a sad end. You, YOU, are too curious, too smart for your own good." She then laid her hands on my shoulders as I was sitting on the floor, holding me in place. Her strength is too much for me. She showed her fangs as they grew out just as she widens her mouth in motion of biting down on me.

Just then, the door busted open, taken aback by that the Lady turned her head. A man barged in, ran towards us and pushed the Lady away. He turned towards me and exclaimed, "Go, go now!" signaling the direction of the window. It was then I noticed, his Silver hair, a scar on his face, 2 swords behind his back and a wolf pendant dangling above his chest.

I scrambled onto my feet, crawling out of the window, struggling to keep going. I did not turn back but the last I heard was a loud screech and the man's voice, "You are my problem now."

*Story is loosely based off Witcher 3, with Orianna. I have always questioned the reason and what could have been after watching the scene being played out on streams and videos. Writing is not the best and I hope its at least a good read for anyone interested. Cheers~

Warmest Regards,
Cruse

Hahah, that's funny! I'm not expecting an announcement about a winner in less than two weeks.

Actually, given GOG's track record on following up previous contests it may take a while longer...





...long enough that a GTX 1070 could be easily found in computer graveyards.

Friday, the bluebells started to bear tiny, tinkling fruits. Classic clapper bells, cowbells, even the little round sleigh bells like the Morris dancers used to wear.

(Those, she didn’t touch. They reminded her too much of her grandfather, back when she was Millie and not Millicent, back when Thomas was still her Tom and it was still their house and not just hers.

She’d have taken the mower to them, she thought, if she could have borne to.)

Monday, she cut a handful of clapper bluebells and brought them in for the vase. One, a stubborn, gangly specimen, bent at the middle like a butler and toppled out onto the table. It went clunk.

Millicent frowned. This bluebell was different from its fellows, somehow. Deeper. Familiar. Almost...

She borrowed a child’s microscope from the boy next door - cost: two packs of cigarettes, a bottle of Strongbow, and a promise not to tell his parents - wiped the grime from the lenses, and slid one tiny grey bell underneath and yes, there it was. The bell of Big Ben, in her living room, no bigger than her fingernail.

I consume too much, Laura told me this. In general, i don't believe people much, but her voice is unique.
I bought her on a garage sale, looking through a "disposable" bin, and how you can understand by now,
our first encounter was pretty rough. To spare you with driest details, our first night was soaking wet,
full of terror in her glossy eyes and machine oil on my sausage-like fingers. You see, i am a cyber-butcher
and i don't spill any faith for limp future of ours - i kill artificial people and i don't share a single tear, digging
in their fake or not memories, and i genuinely like their pink soft-circuit brains - reminds of old days,
of eating cotton candy after another battle with arachnids, which our bodies created because of severe
internal mutations, caused by nuclear waste and weak minds.
Officially the War ended seven years ago, but screams still resonate inside our dreams. Every unimaginable space
was a battleground, that's what happens if you get caught in mindfulness and over-scripted meditations - there is no
limits for consciousness, i was once a spider too, smaller than usual.
Luara smiles all the time, however it's not fake or some surgical abomination, her emotions are genuine, spraying out
from the matrix. It gives me creeps that i've never felt, sometimes i feel she could me my mom and i am a byproduct of
incest. Such a good thing that i haven't killed her yet. "What do you love the most?" she asks, "You" i reply, staring
peacefully at you.
I consume too much, dreams of my author.

A lone man walks across the river going towards the desert, looking for shelter. “Wait!”
Furnius turns and it was a child. The child caught up with him. Panting, the child asks “You are Furnius, yes?” “Yeah, and I wish you would leave my sight,” Furnius says. “Only if you take this letter. It's from the King of this city.” He grabs the letter and looks around. “A city you say? There is nothing here but a sandy wasteland!” The child looks at him angrily. “Pay attention to your surroundings. Can't you see the people around you?” Furnius ignores the child and starts to read the letter. The child was indignant. The letter reads: “Pardon me sir, but may you please leave my land today? It's nothing personal, since our problem does not need your assistance. Our problem will be resolved soon.” The letter didn't have a signature, so Furnius doesn't think the letter is real. He looks up and there is a tall woman standing in front of him, and the environment changed around him, from a “sandy wasteland” to a sparkling forest. Furnius was supposedly reading a love letter to her. “Are you trying to seduce me, Sir Furnius?” the tall woman asked with a smile.
“Hellooo?! You awake?” Furnius was unconscious at the moment. Lumina was the “child's” name. In the world of Paragon, everything here isn't what you call “normal.” Having a good sense of imagination, variety of people, animals, cities and other things can come to reality. This is what Furnius does not have as of right now. Lumina was dragging him to some place safe around the city. To Furnius it's all just a “sandy wasteland”, but to others it's a grand city that's full of excitement. Kids playing around in parks, flying cars and bikes everywhere, and almost everyone was prosperous. Almost. But of course there's always an opposite of something. Lumina wasn't rich but still going through life as any person would. Having to settle somewhere after never being picked by a family in a foster home, the other side of Paragon is where she lived and owned.
Fifteen minutes of pulling and tugging, Lumina finally got Furnius someplace safe. Furnius had awoken and freaked out immediately. In his view, he still saw the desert. “Hey, you're awake! I thought you were a goner.” It was the little “child”, Lumina. “You!” yelled Furnius. “Hey now, I didn't do anything to you, I just pulled you out of the middle of the street.” “Middle of the- What street?” asked Furnius. “Are you kidding me? You still can't see what I'm seeing, can you?” “Nope, not one thing.” Lumina let out a big sigh. She offered him a bowl of soup, in her perspective of course. What Furnius saw made him squeal. “Uhh, what's wrong?” asked Lumina. “Are you trying to kill me?! That bowl is filled with bugs!” Lumina laughed loudly. “A big guy like you scared of bugs? Haha!” “Those aren't any normal bugs, I tell you!” The bugs had variety of colors, but looked large and discombobulated with many of the body parts lumpy and seemingly broken. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, scaredy cat.”
After a while, Furnius started to see things the same way Lumina did, but not permanently. Lumina conjured up a potion which she likes to call, remembrance. “This is the best thing I have to that expensive piece of crap made in the city,” Lumina said. “This will make you see things like me for a few hours but that's it. The potion in the city does the opposite, letting me see what you're seeing now. Keep that until it's necessary to use it.” “Thanks. And one thing, how come you're a kid and you can do all of this?” Furnius asked. “Looks can be deceiving.”

“This is all your fault, Bill.”

Eugene Walker, a sulky boy in a striped shirt, aimed a kick at the old lunchbox. As usual, his foot went right through it.

“‘That old lighthouse isn’t haunted’, you said. ‘My brother’s been up it and he says he stayed there all night and Viv let him put his hand up her blouse after’, you said. Well it’s been twenty bloody years and there’s been no Viv’s bloody blouses for us, has there!”

“Give it a rest, Gene,” drawled Herbert from where he sprawled in a nest of old oilskins. Bill just kept quiet and stared at his feet like always. His plimsolls were as scuffed as the day they’d climbed up here, chortling and elbowing each other, daring each other to be the first to open the door at the top.

Gene’d never forgiven Bill for dropping the torch when he saw the lighthouse keeper.

It’d dropped out of his fingers like Viv Andrews dropped her bloody knickers, rolled all the way down every cracking, crunching bloody step, and gone out before it even rounded the corner. And then there’d just been the dark and the screaming and the light of the dead man’s eyes.

“I think there was a war, y’know.”

They both stared at Bill. He waved a skinny, gauzy hand at the glass. “Out there, about three years ago. Big metal ships. I wondered. Y’know. About Tom.”

“Jesus, Bill,” said Gene. “First word in two years and it’s about the bastard who sent us up here.”

I am Gerald von Riva.

I am a witcher.

I am the one who does not stop to grow. My duty is to kill beasts and to lift hexes and to strengthen my body the best for doing so.

There is no hex I would stop to perform. There is no transmutation I would not surpass to serve the greater aims the best I can.

Sometimes, I really do not know who I am and where I came from. Faces I do not know hunt me at night but in dayfall I can never find them. There is more mystery in the mist than we know and some riddles are not ours to be solved.

But I choose this world to be my home and I will follow my destiny as long as the beast inside of me is alive. I am the white wolf.

thank you for the kind words.

i do like writing sort of warm and gentle stuff and i feel like this fits in with that sort of idea.

It was midwinter the first time they met, the day before she turned fourteen.

The wood was silent like a sleeping creature, thick and heavy in the air, and Ivy kept her hands in her pockets and her voice in her belly. She turned the coins in her pocket as she walked, twisting them between her fingers until they were warm and slick with sweat.

A mile to go, by my count, and a little more than half that to the bridge.

She was aware of the lad beside her before she stopped, in truth not certain when he had joined her. They watched each other and Ivy waited. Finally, impatient and a little fearful, she began walking and he kept pace beside her.

“Homeward bound?”

His voice was light and clear and Ivy nodded.

“In the little village over the bridge? That’s a fair way this time of year.”

Ivy didn’t answer and she didn’t stop, but she did watch him out of the corner of her eye. He was dark and slight, in a cloak the colour of holly berries that fastened at the hollow of his throat. Beneath it she caught a flash of fawn brown, but he caught her gaze faster and she turned it back to the path.

They went like that until the bridge showed itself ahead of them, stark and ugly against the white woods beyond. Scarcely a foot away from it her unwelcome companion stopped.

Ivy took a step past him, then paused. “Aren’t you coming?”

He laughed at her. “I can’t come your way, little rabbit. There’s still fresh water running under that thick ice.”

Running water? For the first time she looked at him properly, looked him tip down to toe and stopped when she got there.

Despite the snow, despite the frost, despite the aching chill in the air, his feet were bare and soft and he stood on his toes like a cat. Behind it she could see the trail of small, inhuman prints beside her heavy boots and Ivy darted backwards onto the bridge when it laughed at her again.

“Run home, little rabbit. I won’t be bothering your folk tonight.”

And she did, and it didn’t.

I did volunteer work for a year in the Suicidal Prevention Center of my city, in Brazil.

This job was way more demanding that I originally thought. I underwent eight weeks of intense training in order to learn how to talk to a suicidal person. Those eight weeks were there to test the limits of my patience and capacity for empathy. There is no joking around when dealing with suicide. You might not get a second chance.

After the training was over I had a four hour shift under my responsibility. Miss one of my shifts? Out, no excuses. Most of the work was done through the Center's hotline, so I never really saw the people I was talking to. But one of them I did. He rang the doorbell and I lead him in. This is his story.

His name was Al.

Al was tall, bald and very skinny, malnourished really. And he stank. Bad. His smell was of someone very sweaty who did not take a single shower for a week, at least.

Also, there were his clothes. His shirt and his shorts were inside out, and it didn't seem like a purposeful fashion choice, at least that was what I thought when I noticed it. But now, thinking about his misfortunes, I believe there might have been blood stains on the other side of his clothes that he was trying to hide.

And his were summer clothes. It was winter, and the day was cold.

At first I thought he was a regular hobo looking for some roof and a person to talk to. The veteran volunteers told me that it had happened before. But then Al started talking, and everything changed. He was, and still is, the most eloquent men I ever talked to. No Uuuuhs or Uhnnnns with this guy, Al's speech flowed like a waterfall. And as fast as one, also. I was barely able to keep up with how fast he talked. But even talking at such a speed his words did not slur or drag at all. His enunciation was clear and he knew exactly what words to say and in what order. His sentences were long and full of meaning, a true artist's brush made of sound, painting the portrait of his life and pain on the canvas of my mind.

Al had dogs, and was worried about them. This was his main concern. He was seeking help from the Suicidal Prevention Center in order to find a charity – or anyone else really – who was willing to accept a business deal he created to buy cheap dog food. The details of this deal were so convoluted that I did not understand it at all. I was taken aback, unable to follow his rationale and keep the conversation flowing, so mostly I listened while looking him in the eyes, very feverish eyes. I believe he was sick.

I was able to change the topic of the conversation to himself after a while, a trick I learned during the training. Al didn't have any friends or family, only his dogs. They were hungry and one of then was dying from a painful disease. He had given all his money to a guy who promised he would buy cheap dog food, but never delivered. When Al went to this guy's house wanting his money back the guy called the cops, and Al was beaten badly on the knees (they wore very swollen and purple, the only part of his body that wasn't sickly skinny). The cops then took him and dropped in front of a hospital. But since he didn't have any money, the doctors refused treatment and he was forced to walk out of there with his knees bleeding and hurting, barely dressed into a cold winter night. And still Al was only thinking about his dogs.

He cried while telling his tale, but didn't seen to notice. I also cried, and that he noticed. "Are you crying because you feel bad for me?" he asked. It sounded like an accusation. I knew I couldn't lie, he would realize it. So I told him the truth. "No. I'm crying because I can't see a way to help you."

He accepted that. It was the first time he didn't have anything to say. A defeat, for both of us. He left me his contact numbers and an address, in case I found someone who was willing accept his deal. I took it, but knew it wasn't going to happen. After one hour of conversation he went back to the streets and I went home, my shift was over.

I was devastated. It took every fiber of my being just to drive decently and avoid some stupid car crash. When I got home I couldn't muster the energy to get to my room. I just sat at the dinner room table and cried. My father saw me there, but didn't say anything. He can be a very patient man when he wants. Silently stood by my side and waited for me to stop.

It took ten minutes, more or less, for me to regain enough control of myself. I told the whole story and at the end, I said how useless I was feeling. A man, a desperate man, stood in front of me with all the honesty of his heart, begging me for help to relieve his pain, and there was nothing I could do besides look him straight in the eyes and tell the truth. My father said that the act of listening is important, and Al knew I had listened to him. I couldn't improve his condition, but maybe by paying attention I showed him that he was still a man, worthy of his space in this world like every one of us; and that probably helped him, even if just a little bit. I still don't know if my father was right.

My mother had different advice. She listened to everything later, and seeing how distressed I was she told me to turn my feelings into words. She knew I liked to write. I took her advice and out of it came something that is half-poem half-prayer. I don't know if it is half-good, but I will leave it to you guys to read. In the end maybe this is more Al's tale then mine, but it is certainly something that I will never forget.

Forgive me, brother

For not being the help that you were looking for
For my hand being unable to reach yours
For witnessing the suffering in your eyes, and not being able to wipe them
For not sharing the weight of your cross on my shoulders
For being unable to light a path for you to follow
For being only me, and that was not enough
For all that, forgive me, brother
All I have to offer you is this prayer
May God help you find what you seek
May God's hand bring you comfort
May God clean the suffering from within you
May God turn your cross into a crucifix
May the divine light shine on your destiny
May God be all of Him, for it is all that we need
And may you find peace, brother
Amen

Moore

Feeling the armrest of the camping chair, he dropped himself down, heavily groaning as he adjusted to the less than comfortable position. This subordinate had to guard the door, although as time passed, the role became more and more taxing. He was becoming distracted- his uncomfortable perch, that fly that just won’t leave him alone, and the murderous humidity around him... Did he mention the fly? There was a sudden knock on the door. Odd, as there shouldn’t be anyone there at this time of night, especially considering their less than legal operation. He approached the door cautiously, lifting his eye up to the peephole. On the other side he saw a man dressed in black, one hand wrapped around the bottom of a balaclava, raising it up to show a toothy smile, one of malice and insanity. It was Moore. The subordinate was confused until he heard the gunshot, looking down and seeing the hole blasted perfectly through his shirt, chest,and heart. He doubled over backwards as Moore kicked the door through.

Stepping over the body Moore holstered his pistol bringing out a larger assault rifle from his back. Flipping it over, he eyed it up and down. It seemed perfect, clean as the day it was issued, just as he intended.
“Drugs operation in a domestic area - Hardly the best idea at the best of times.” He thought rounding a corner, unmindful of the ugly decor and peeling wallpaper. He saw another guard on the other side - two to the chest, one to the head - then he fought onwards. Eventually he reached a large bathroom. Breathing deeply, he ran shoulder first into the flimsy door taking it off its hinges. On the other side he met an unusual sight. Dead bodies, killed with his precision and skill, but not by him; men lying dead on tables of deadly chemicals and blood everywhere.

Moore checked the bodies. The shots were clean and numerous. Before he had time to check much further he heard a squelching footprint behind him. Moore turned to meet a rifle butt. Normally, he wasn’t this close and on this end. He punched the side of the rifle moving it away from his head and palmed it upwards, spinning it into the assailant’s frontal bone. The assailant felt it hard, stumbling backwards as Moore launched into a flurry of punches. He blocked the first and caught the second, twisting his arm behind his back, as Moore reached around himself grabbing his holstered pistol in the wrong hand to flip it round grip-first trying to slam it into the assailant’s face. He was effectively blind, facing away from the enemy and unable to turn lest his arm be broken. Things were getting bloody and dangerous. Moore quickly pushed backwards running the assailant into a wall. The assailant lost his grip on his arm, allowing Moore to swivel around, throwing his gun into his left hand and aiming it cleanly at his head. The man staring back at him appeared to be more knowledgeable than the other men;he wasn’t a junky or a chemist like the rest. He was better, smarter, faster. Firing two shots into his face, Moore checked his pockets, finding nothing.

Moore gave up, and made his way out of the room, trying carefully to not disturb much else. A fridge caught his eye and he swung it open, looking for something to lighten the mood. A beer wouldn’t go amiss. What did go amiss, however, was the shuffling from the next room. The cracking, sounds of flesh being jabbed and bones put back in place. Suddenly, two large hands were clasping his neck from behind. Reaching back to meet his attacker, Moore felt a fractured skull, and two deep gunshot wounds. He wanted to shout, scream, tell someone, but he knew from experience this did little. Moore struggled as best he could but his grip was too tight, almost inhuman, like God himself had determined this was the day he died. After all, who could disagree with God?