June Challenge Stories

2017/07/01

On June my writing club made a challenge to write something everyday, each day with its own prompt and occasionally special rules. I managed a couple. None of these are very good, of course—I wrote them in an hour in the morning, usually—but they were good exercise.

Day 0: Reminisce
A not very good Twine game

Day 2: Wind

“You’re too good for this world.”

“Sure, whatever.”

“C’mon. You know you can do so much more elsewhere.”

“Nah. I like it here.”

“But-”

“You hear that? That’s birds singing. That’s the wind howling. And this? Grass…”

“And what-”

“You know what you can do with these grasses? Lie down on it.”

“But that- that’s all there is in this world. Is lying down all you want to do now?”

“Yeah.”

“You can still-”

“Look, man. I’ve been to, what, fifty-odd universes now. How many have I saved? How many have we screwed over?”

“Anything’s better than nothing.”

“Sure. You’re entititled to that opinion.”

“But. You’ve. Look, you don’t have a second chance, okay? I’m leaving, and once I’m gone, you can’t ever travel again.”

“…”

“Are you listening?”

“You hear that? That’s the wind howling.”

“… Are you sure about this?”

“I’ve had enough adventures. Let me rest.”

Day 3: Every Day We Stray Further from the God
Special rule: The story should contain only dialogues, no narration

THE ALLFATHER has entered the chatroom
Lowkey: Haha yeah and did u hear about the valk
Lowkey: SHIT.
Lowkey: who invited dad?
THE ALLFATHER: Hello, son
Lowkey: NO RLY WHO DID IT
THndeR: Hi dad!
Lowkey: its you isn’t it
Lowkey: dammit THr
THndeR: Isnt me
THE ALLFATHER: How are you doing, my sons
THndeR: Pretty great dad
THE ALLFATHER: You don’t talk to your father much anymore
THE ALLFATHER: It seems everyday you stray further from me
Lowkey: UGH PLZ
Lowkey has left the chatroom
Frayer: lol
Hell: wimp
THE ALLFATHER: That’s not a very nice thing to say to your father
Hell: its tru tho

THE ALLFATHER: So
THE ALLFATHER: I’ve only recently learned of this chatroom place
THE ALLFATHER: How many of you are in here?
THndeR: Plnety
THndeR: Most dont talk much
Hell: usually it’s just dad and uncle thr bickering
Gatekeepr: Sir, there’s a button there to see how those of us who are here
THE ALLFATHER: Oh, I see!
THE ALLFATHER: Hmm, who is Gatekeepr?
THndeR: It’s heimdall
Gatekeepr: Sir
THE ALLFATHER: Frayer and Freightjar?
Frayer: I’m Freyr!
Freightjar: UGH WHAT
Freightjar I DID NOT CHOOSE THIS NAME
Freightjar: I GOT HACKED
Frayer: lol
Freightjar: WHO DID It
Frayer: lol who do u think

Day 4: Glimmer
Special Rule: Inspired by this poem:

I see the glimmer of days’ past
so in this moment of reckoning
I will give it all
so everything converges

“What are these?” I asked, holding the crystal up. It glimmered as I held it to the light. It was the size of your fist, shaped like an egg. The other crystals on the table were less uniform. Some were spherical, some had sharp edges.

“Memories,” the Magician said. He took another crystal and repositioned it on the other side of the circle he had drawn on the table. His eyesbrows furrowed. Evidently, something about the formation bothered him.

“What are you trying to do?”

“Putting them together.” He picked up another and weigh it in his hands. “No, that’s not right,” he muttered.

“Umm, sorry?”

“Hand me those notes, wouldn’t you?” He pointed to the piles of papers, which I quickly brought to him. He glared at the arcane equations he had written on the papers.

“So,” I started, slowly, “The crystals hold memory, and you’re trying to put them together, why?”

“I’m going to bring him back.,” he replied, his voice hazy. “I’m going to bring him back. Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

Day 6: Whispers

The trek was difficult for them, but it would have been impossible for anyone else. The bog was poisonous, the cliffs were too slippery to get through, the entrance to the caves were too obscure to find. But the Magician seemed to always know where to go, which path to take. Martin, on his part, kept shut and followed his footstep. His mentor hadn’t been in the mood since they demolished the old Academy.

“They could have turned it into a museum,” the Magician had remarked with distaste.

“No one has used the place in centuries. I don’t think people remember what it was used for,” Martin had clarified.

“As I said. Museum.”

He wouldn’t, however, elaborate on what the museum would be about, or even what the Academy was for, or why he calls it the Academy when no one else does. He just stayed quiet and grumpy for days.

When the Magician told Martin they were going on a trip, he thought it’d be a marvelous way to entertain him. He wasn’t counting on how bizarre the trip was going to be.

“So,” Martin started. They were just through the mountains, past the abandoned mine and the abandoned dragon hoard (“Hasn’t been a dragon in a century, has it, sir?”) and the waterfall that had dried up entirely. Carefully, for the fifth time, he asked, “Where are we going?”

And the Magician replied, for the fifth time, “You’ll see.”

They were going into a forest now, where the gaps between treetrunks could be measured in inches. Vines grew in the empty spaces, encircling the trees, covering holes, making the entire forest more like a singular being than a place anyone could get into.

The Magician stopped in front of it

“Are we going in there?” Martin asked.

“Depends. Listen.”

There was nothing but the wind, but Martin listened, and then he heard even the wind.

The wind was speaking.

“What is this place?”

“The Whispering Forest,” the Magician answered. “Be quiet, I’m talking.”

“Huh?”

The Magician had his ears on a treetrunk. He was whispering back o the forest, and Martin, who was born in a more reasonable age, had to stop himself from falling back to his old beliefs.

The wind was blowing through the tiny gaps between the vines, betwen the trees. It’s possible that the whispers are nothing more than tangled air, the way wind would resemble music when it passes a flute.

Then the Magician looked at his face, and he chuckled, as if he could read what Martin was thinking. “Bit too late to be doubting me, isn’t it?” he said.

“Sir, what is this place?”

And then, as if in reply, the trees moved, the vines parted, revealing a clear path into the forest.

“A museum. Or an old friend,” the Magician said. He took a step into the clearing. “Whichever you like. Either way we got permission. Come on.”

Martin noticed that he was smiling.

Day 8: Shadows
Special Rule: Every sentence begins with different letters

I ask you if you believe in ghosts, because if you don’t there wouldn’t be any point in what I’m about to tell you: beware the man who lives in shadows. None can see him but he sees you, from every nook left behind, from every corners forgotten, from every alcoves in which light forget to shine. He watches and he waits and he’s patient, his jaws always ready to crunch, his talons, ever sharp. You ask, what danger is he to you, one who dwell in the light, and I shudder even at your attempts. Create all the lights you like, but light always forgets, and in those places that it forgets, shadows reign. Observe: the stronger the light, the more intense its shadows, the stronger it becomes.

And that is why you should buy our Myriad Mirror! Forget increasing the strength of your light, expand their reign! Buy now before the end of this break for only fifty dragon’s teeth!

Those rumours about the mirror criers, I assure you, are simply baseless rumours.

Day 9: Encounter
Special Rule: Does not contain the letter ‘o’, begins and ends with the same sentence.
Note: Because it’s practically impossible to not use the letter ‘o’ while writing in English, I wrore this one in Indonesian.

Lampu di atas meredup, mengedip, lalu menyala kembali, memperlihatkan ruangan yang sepi. Hanya ada dirimu di sini, dipajang seorang diri. Dari belakangmu, kamu mendengar langkah-langkah kaki.

“Siapa kamu?” tanyanya. Pertanyaan yang bodoh, pikirmu. Dengan punggungmu masih tertuju padanya, kamu menunjuk ke plakat yang ada di sebelahmu.

“Nomer 47. Galatea,” bacanya. “Marmer putih Thasus. Pemahatmu… Ah-” Ia terdiam. “Apa kamu tahu, tentang pemahatmu?”

Kamu bergidik, tapi begitu mudah menyembunyikan perasaanmu jika kulitmu terbuat dari marmer. “Tidak, aku tak mengenalnya. Ia menjualku setelah selesai membuatku. Aku tidak tahu ia di mana sekarang.”

“Hmm mm.” Ia terdiam sebentar sebelum melanjutkan, “Namanya Pygmalian, dari Siprus. Jauh sekali, Siprus. Jadi kamu diterbangkan ke sini?”

“Ya, terbang. Aku,” kamu berhenti, sesuatu tertahan di lidahmu. Lupakan, lanjutkan, lidahmu terbuat dari batu, “Aku dimasukkan ke dalam peti dan didiamkan di bagasi.”

“Ah begitu? Jadi, kamu tidak tahu bagaimana rasanya terbang?”

Kamu menggeleng, dan menggerakan kepalamu untuk menghadapnya sedikit. “Aku tak pernah memikirkannya. Peti itu gelap. Membosankan. Aku tertidur.”

“Hmm mm.” Kamu mendengar suara seperti paku di atas batu, atau mungkin hanya pensil di atas kertas. “Jadi,” lanjutnya, “Tahu-tahu kamu sudah ada di sini?”

“Ya begitulah.”

Ia terdiam beberapa lama, cukup lama hingga kamu ingin melihatnya sedikit. Kamu putar badanmu menghadapnya, tapi hanya sedikit saja. Tak perlu memberinya harapan. Tak perlu memberi dirimu harapan.

“Pemahatmu,” mulainya, akhirnya, “seperti apa dia?”

Pemahatmu? Seperti apa dia? “Penyendiri,” jawabmu. “Tak sabaran jika harus berurusan dengan seniman lain, atau, manusia lain. Sangat fokus dengan pekerjaannya. Tapi ia… Sabar. Tangannya lembut.”

“Saat memahatmu?”

Sesuatu bergetar di dadamu, tapi itu tak mungkin, tak mungkin. Kamu tak punya jantung. Kamu patung pahatannya dan ia pemahatmu, itu saja.

“Apa ia ada di luar sana?” tanyamu. “Ia pasti senang melihat hasil karyanya dipampang di galeri seni.”

Tanpa sadar kamu telah berputar dan menghadanya. Pria muda, lebih muda dari pemahatmu, memakai kacamata dan wajah yang telihat sangat sedih.

“Galatea,” mulainya. Ia menengok ke plakat di sebelahmu, yang tak bisa kau baca. “Kamu tak tahu?”

“Tahu apa?”

“Galatea, di sini tertulis ia… bunuh diri setelah memahatmu.”

Sesuatu bergetar di dadamu. “Aku tidak tahu apa artinya itu.”

Dan ia dengan sabar menjelaskan, bagaimana manusia hidup dan mati.

Duniamu terasa terjungkir balik. Kamu tak bisa menangis karena kau tak punya air mata, dadamu tak bisa merasakan sakit, karena kau tak punya jantung. Begitu sulit menampilkan perasaanmu jika kulitmu terbuat dari marmer.

“Maaf,” kata pria muda di depanmu, tapi kamu sudah tak peduli dengannya.

“A-aku,” mulaimu, suaramu masih indah dan kamu begitu membencinua. “Aku patung pahatannya. Ia pemahatku. Aku menjadi hidup untuknya. Jika ia tak ada, untuk apa aku? Siapa aku?”

“Galatea,” kata pria kecil itu lagi.“Ia tak ada, tapi kamu masih di sini. Manusia tak pernah punya alasan untuk memulai hidup, kita selalu mencarinya selama kita hidup.”

Tapi kamu bukan manusia, tak pernah bermaksud menjadi manusia, tak akan bisa menjadi manusia.

Pria itu masih berdiri di situ, seperti menunggu keajaiban. Kau akan beri dia keajaiban.

Lampu di atas meredup, mengedip lalu menyala kembali, memperlihatkan ruangan yang sepi.

• Fanfiksi Galatea

Day 18: Songs

Aleksander used to be quite a singer. His voice was deep with a rauchy edge and it played in harmony with everything from jazz to blues to the more eccentric variants of punk. Sometimes he could still hear it, humming in his mind or swirling in his heart, but they’ll never be able to leave his lips. All they are for now is to feed the shadows who live inside his lung.

He had thought he’d be fine with it—losing his voice was nothing to saving her life—but occasionally there’d be nights like these.

The elves had set up a makeshift stage, the fairies had put on lights. The snake charmers, mice pipers, and a tree-armed octopus-faced man were at the back setting up their instruments. At the end of the alley, where the rest of the city began, a crystallian woman was watching the Barrier. The monsters rarely hold parties in the city, for fear that the ruckus it made would break the Barrier and caused the humans to take notice, but, he supposed, it was about time.

He had a seat, a stack of discarded crates, all by himself off by the edge of the party. Music was playing, creatures were dancing. There was a spider woman and a tiger man and a centaur and a banshee, even. Up the stage a winged, red-skinned deviless was singing jazz. No one else in the alley was human, but not one of them thought him out of place. There were the shadows inside his lung, and it went up as he smoked, forming intricate shapes above his head. He supposed he would be singing now, if he could sing, and it was the shadow’s way of letting them out. Or of making fun of him.

Creatures were streaming in and out of the alley as the night went on, from the humanoid to the grotesque to the formless to the winged horrors. Among those, Aleksander almost missed the only other human to visit the party.

The shadows whispered to him in a sound that isn’t a voice: the other human had a ghost on his shoulder. It didn’t take Aleksander long to recognise him: he was the hunter he’d met and helped a couple of weeks ago. They took down a Ripper together, didn’t they? What was his name, Marion? The shadows nodded in a gesture that’s almost like a voice.

Heads turned in the hunter’s direction, but he smiled easily, and the creatures of the party smiled back, some more in sneers and glares. So, he was a well-known hunter.

The hunter took to centre-stage quickly, dancing with the banshee and a crystallian and all manners of non-human ladies as if it was nothing. Aleksander almost envied him. He would have danced; more, he would have gone up that stage and sing, but the shadows was swirling in his lung, caressing his desires. He’s not one for the crowds. Not anymore.

Aleksander, he leaned back and stared at his pipe. Maybe a dozen years of this and he’d be able to rid his lung of the singing smoke. Or die trying, whichever come first. His life has always been a gamble.