Science Fiction Microstory Contest discussion
DECEMBER 2022 SCIENCE FICTION MICROSTORY CONTEST (Stories only)
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DARK MATTERSKyle’s heart was throbbing, his breath rapid as he helped Sandra through the open window into the dark house. The shards from the window pane he’d broken cracked under his foot against the carpeting. He jumped half out of his skin as a cat hissed and scampered away in the darkness.
“Will you calm down,” Sandra whispered urgently.
“Why are we even doing this tonight?” Kyle protested, his body covered in sweat. “Why not next week when we know Peddington’s going to be at that faculty meeting?”
“Yeah, or why not wait ‘till month’s end?” that freak Kerwin joked as he climbed through the window, giggling as he swung his flashlight over his pimpled face. “Halloween seems more appropriate anyway!”
Kyle rolled his eyes. Why the hell did they have to bring him along? So, Peddington failed all three of them. He clenched his fists. Way to go, Kyle. You’re in a loser’s club.
“It has to be tonight,” Sandra insisted. “It’s the tenth of October. 10-10. That’s my angel number. It’s my spirit guide’s way of telling me everything’s about to change for me. That I’m about to enter a transformative stage in my life. ”
Kyle grit his teeth, suppressing an obscenity. Why had he let her talk him into this? “Look…let’s just toss the place and go, okay? That’s revenge enough.”
“No!” Sandra whispered angrily. “If even half the rumors we’ve heard about Peddington are true, we could find enough evidence to get him fired. Maybe even jailed.”
“Hey, check this out,” Kerwin said, holding up a revolver he’d found in a drawer. “Six rounds, no less,” he said, spinning the chambers.
“Give me that!” Kyle said, snatching the gun and slipping it into his belt.
“Look here,” Sandra said, passing her flash light over one of Professor Peddington’s notebooks.
Kyle read silently over her shoulder. Peddington’s favorite subject: dark matter. It shaped the galaxies, and Peddington seemed obsessed with the idea it could shape life, too. And, that the dark matter making its presence felt in our universe might be leaking in from another, composed entirely of dark matter. It got weirder after that. ‘Ol crackpot Peddington believed, given the right mix of experimental drugs and cerebral electric shock, the human brain, operating on a quantum level, could become a gateway into a dark matter universe. Peddington even believed he’d heard the voices of some dark matter intelligence talking to him during his drug trips.
#
Kerwin’s blood froze as his flashlight beam fell on Peddington’s drawn, ghastly pale face, the old man’s glassy pale blue eyes staring straight at him.
Peddington sat there, tubes pumping liquid into his veins, electrodes taped to his head. The old man twisted a nob, apparently upping the dosage. Kerwin’s knees turned to putty as Peddington dissolved, flesh and bone imploding, turning to gelatin, then liquid, then vapor. Kerwin leapt back with shock as…something…some invisible presence, like a wave of energy left Peddington’s evaporating corpse and shot through him, penetrating every nerve in his body…
#
“We’ve got all the evidence we need,” Kyle said. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Where’s Kerwin?”
“Who cares? Let’s just…” Sandra froze as she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Kyle drew the gun. Her hand trembled as her flashlight beam fell on Kerwin. She sighed in relief as Kerwin clomped, stiff and awkward, down the stairs. “Kerwin, come on…we’re…” A scream caught in her throat.
Kerwin’s eyes glowed green. Her eyes widened, her blood curdling as Kerwin’s body twisted and warped, bones, flesh and internal organs melting and reforming. She screamed as he became a writhing mass of tentacles, thrashing claws and drooling fanged maws. Changing every moment, like a monster in a nightmare. She dug her nails deep into her forearm, praying it was a dream as the shape-shifting monstrosity sprouted great leathery wings, shrieking as it swooped down the stairs, seizing Kyle in its huge talons and eviscerating him.
Sandra screamed as the gun slid across the floor. She acted on blind instinct, picking up the gun and firing. She dropped the gun and froze in shock as Kerwin reappeared in human form, his dead body on the floor.
She felt it. An invisible force, like a boiling ripple on the air, seizing her. She screamed as her body splintered into a multitude of winged, bloodthirsty predators, screaming into the night in search of human prey.
Ten times ten the inhuman swarm grew…
Mod
Jot Russell c2022
Aknar breathed heavily, holding the weapon over the slain, adult male convict. The sweat dripped off his young hand as he dropped the double-ended sword to the stone surface. He took another breath and looked over towards the next chamber to see his friend also competing against a much larger opponent. Aknar gasped, seeing the criminal duck under Torakus' strike and thrust himself upon his friend's back. Aknar ran to the screen that divided the chambers, somehow hoping to break through and lend assistance to the boy that he had shared his childhood with.
With his hands upon the field, Aknar could see the bottom end of the arched blade extend up and out from back of the man. Using it as a level, Torakus raised the top end of the sword, rolling the body off of him.
Now free, Torakus stood with his sword raised in celebration. He gave no care at the red ooze that dripped down upon his already red stained uniform. He bore it like a trophy as he walked over towards his friend. With his approach, the translucent field released. The boys exchanged grasps and turned to meet a man that approached.
"Well done boys! You have completed all nine challenges. However, before you can enter the academy of the elite, there is one, much more difficult challenge for one of you to complete."
Aknar looked confused. "A tenth challenge, master?"
The master stood firm and provided no explanation.
Torakus asked, "What do we have to do?"
The master clarified, "Not we. One of you has to kill the other. Begin!"
The boys quickly turned their heads to read the other. Torakus looked down at the empty hand of Aknar and then beyond to see his blade laying near the fallen criminal. With his blood still raging within, Torakus shifted his stance and thrust the blade towards the abdomen of Aknar.
With his face still perplexed by the challenge, Aknar watched the altered glance and expression of his friend to realize the attack was imminent. He twisted his body sideways and thrust his hand into Torakus' elbow. The blade's redirection defended the strike, but Torakus followed with a full, cross-level swipe.
Aknar jumped back in time and into a reverse hand spring. Torakus hesitated only a moment before giving chase. Aknar landed on his back foot and twisted around to direct his sprint forward just as another swipe cut through the back of his uniform.
Jumping forward, Aknar dove into a roll, and grabbed his weapon. He raised it up just in time to meet the blade of Torakus. Using his momentum, Aknar thrust his legs up to catch the hips of the other.
Torakus flew over, relaxing the grasp of his weapon to catch his fall. Aknar extended his to loop around the curved end of the other, pulling it free. With Torakus weaponless on his back, he looked up to see Aknar pointing both down upon him.
"Why Torakus, why?" Aknar brought a hand back, and extended his fingers around the handle to withdraw an item from his pocket. He threw it towards his friend.
Torakus grabbed the photo and recalled the image of them when they were five. He looked back at Aknar and replied, "I don't know, I'm sorry."
Aknar looked up at his master. "I refuse to kill my friend for your academy or for anything you might offer me."
The master clapped his hands. "Congratulations! You have shown principle above all else and will be educated to be a leader of our world."
"And my friend?"
"He will also be educated at the academy, but only as an instructor. As with myself, his selfishness and failure has dictated that he can not be trusted in a leadership position." Shifting his gaze towards Torakus, "However, if he does not accept this honor or decides to speak out about the details of the challenge, he will be deemed a criminal and utilized for a future challenge. Do you both accept this outcome?"
From both, "Yes, master."
"In that case, Sir Aknar, it's been an honor serving you."
10 to-1, or The Other Frank Girl’s Diary: a tale mebbe not for HanukkahCopyright 2022 by Paula Friedman
Thanks to an early-accessed subcorollary to the WaffiDrump discoveries originally prompted by the von Hoffburger Wheyowt Hybrids (or: Virtual Corpseicles) hypothesis, the labs at Verzelon-Berkeley have succeeded in “recording,” as it is phrased, “post-mortality-state telepathic” communications. One such communication, of more than average interest, and either peculiarly relevant or particularly inappropriate for the Jewish holiday of Hanukkah, would seem to be this seeming “graveside” discussion between two of what our Advanced Biotechnicoid and Diverging Systems folk like to call bio-electroid Avatars, or "ghostings" (for short, "Ava-Ghosts"). The Ava-Ghosts in question would appear to have been (or to represent?) two sisters at the time of the World War II Holocaust.
(A note: As our project began, the odds seemed to favor finding evidence, or at least strong possibilities, of fear-removing Good News concerning the post-mortal state [or states].)
The “sisters’” communication follows.
*#*
“Whaddaya mean, ten times that long, or mebbe longer?”
At the words, thickly pronounced through the sand-mud layers of adjacent earth, Margi felt the old familiar heave as she turned, loosely flaking, awaiting Annie’s next words.
And here they came. “’cause, after all, Sis, it’s ME they’re gonna remember. Me, me, me. MY diary, MY point of view, not yours. Nobody’s gonna know YOUR name.” That awful, ghostly voice laughed, seemingly directly in Margi’s once-ears, from the damp adjacent grave. “So there—been eighty years. Told ya they’d love me best.”
“No quite. Seventy-some, that’s all.” Her own ghosted voice had turned so weak already, Margi thought—or rather, tried to think. “Like, someday may be MY turn. For fame, I mean; fair’s fair.”
“YOU? You don’t mean nothing.” That dreaded, little-sisterly voice again. “I’m the one—me, ME.”
The sound of had-been-Annie in her (virtual ear) drums, Margi tried to turn (just one more time!) with nothing falling loose or coming off. “But someday, Annie, someday! You just wait. Because if Mom, not Dad, had lived to find the diary, it might’ve been not yours but mine. Dad may have loved you best, but Mom most loved ME.”
That bouncing of the soil must be Annie turning—or trying to. “Mom died--like us; Dad didn’t. Way the ball bounces, Sis o’ mine.”
Margi sighed a deadly sigh. “Someday, though, gonna be my turn. You’ll see.”
From the adjacent grave, Annie's answer slid into Margi's slipping mind. “Ya wanna bet? Better speed it up, then, before our virtuals flake to zero. 'Cause what odds you gonna be remembered, Sis--3 thousand to one, one million to three, 8 billlion to ten?”
[436 words]
Pay as You GoThe writing was on the wall, or rather, prominently displayed in red, on the screen in Jean's cabin:
"Your subscription to the entertainment package has expired. Please enter a valid credit card to renew your package."
At the bottom of the screen, with a tiny asterisk, was additional verbiage:
"Please note that long distance charges will apply, and that transactions may take several hours to complete due to the transmission distance."
Jean knocked on the door of the next cabin over. "My entertainment expired," she said.
"You didn't do a buyout?" said Marie, once she opened the door. She looked like she had been sleeping. “It costs ten times more to do things piecemeal with these crooks.”
"Pay as you go," Jean said. “I guess I made a mistake.” She sighed. "It's still a month until Mars, and I canceled my cards before I left Earth."
"Same here," said Marie, cautiously. "I did a buyout though. Don't trust those folks with monthly payments. You can never get them to cancel."
"I'll have to ask in the cafeteria if anyone will trade cash," said Jean. "Thanks, anyway." This, with a slight edge to her voice.
Jean carefully climbed the ladder to the cafeteria. Even after months in micro-gravity, she still felt relieved to attach her velcro shoes to the floor. The seemingly endless shaft gave her vertigo.
There was a crowd present, clustered around a large screen. Jean threaded her way carefully to the front.
The screen read:
"Your subscription to the navigation and velocity modification packages has expired. Please enter a valid credit card to renew these packages."
Tiny legalese appeared at the bottom of the screen, just as it had in her cabin. In this case, however, the text ran to several paragraphs. Jean did not attempt to read it.
"Charter company must have messed up," said the man next to her. "Not good."
"What does that mean, exactly?" somebody said. Jean could not see who it was.
"No rockets to slow us down when we get to Mars," said Jean's neighbor.
"Anyone got a valid credit card?" Jean asked, once the shouting subsided a bit.
"That's going to be very pricey. Better have a large spending limit," somebody muttered.
“Better start passing a hat around,” said Jean’s neighbor. He sounded resigned.
"All right, coming through," somebody said, assertively. The captain of the spacecraft pushed her way to the front of the crowd, brandishing a metallic rectangle in her hand. "Not mine," she said. "We have a generous volunteer. Nameless for now." She swiped the card through a small reader.
A pinging sound emanated from the screen, and the text changed:
"Thank you for renewing your packages. Please note that the transaction will take up to two hours to complete, due to transmission time."
The text flashed twice, and then was replaced by a new message:
"Please note that the volume of hydrocarbons previously loaded on your craft were sufficient only for your original package parameters. You may need to refuel to support your new velocity modification package. Additional charges may apply.”
Ten Bullets to MidnightLieutenant Phillipe Marsay shivered in his autochromatic camouflage armor and watched the snow drift lazily down upon their position. It was a bitter reminder of how much had gone wrong during this mission – and how much worse it was going to get. His Centura had been decimated by the Venturi, and all that remained now were the other ten men entrenched in a shallow arc before him. Behind him lay the narrow pass they were ordered to defend at all costs. To be sure, it was a twenty-fifth century Thermopylae in every respect, a nameless place on a map, and of questionable strategic or tactical value. Only, Marsay did not have as many men as King Leonidas. Not even a tenth.
The snow began falling in earnest, and soon the trail leading towards them was covered in a soft veil of innocence Marsay was sure would be soaked with their blood within the hour.
He had no illusions about their ability to hold out, and he was sure his remaining men didn’t either. He checked his chronometer, watched the seconds tick by, then cursed inside that their evac ride was still too far away. Another example of the piss-poor planning that had dogged this mission from the start.
“Comm check,” he ordered. “Everyone sound-off.”
“Ten online.”
“Nine online.”
“Eight online.”
And so it went, down to one.
“Ammo check.”
“One clip.”
“Half clip.”
“Two clips.”
“Out.”
“Someone give Six a clip.” Marsay sighed and tried not to let his fatigue and fear escape from his tight control. His breath hovered like a phantasm before his face, then vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
He checked his own rifle. The counter read 10.
Damn.
Only ten bullets between him and a wretched death in the cold at the hands of the Venturi.
“Shield status.”
“LT, we’ve got juice for five, maybe six minutes.”
“Batteries?” asked Marsay.
“Last ones are hooked up to the emitters.”
“Auto sentries.”
“Online. Armed. No reloads available.”
“Sensor status.”
“They’re out there sir, moving up the way we came in. Pretty quickly too. ETA ten minutes.”
A distant explosion pierced the cold air, followed by several more in short succession.
“Looks like they found the minefield.”
“Excellent work soldier,” said Marsay, hoping against hope the mines would thin out the slavering Venturi hordes.
“Alright, everyone look sharp.”
Then he gave an order he never thought he would hear himself say.
“Squad! Fix bayonets!”
Almost as one, the ten drew their gleaming bayonets, each crackling with blue energy and an eagerness for blood.
“Nine, do you see anything on the scope?”
“Negative Lieutenant. Just empty sky and space.”
“Let me know the second it changes.”
“Copy that.”
“Lieutenant, sentry guns are tracking movement around the last bend. They have firing solutions,” said Six.
“Understood. Seven, activate the shield. Let’s see if we can’t give them a bloody nose before they get here.”
Seven flipped switches on his armor’s wrist panel.
The shield sprang to life, severing in half the Venturi who were unfortunate enough to be between the emitters.
“Six! Sentry guns now! Weapons free!” Ordered Marsay.
A ripsaw sound reverberated off the near vertical mountainsides, as if thousands of guns had opened fire at once instead of just the two placed astride the trail.
The lead Venturi troops – already somewhat stunned by the minefield, piled up before the impenetrable shield barrier and were mercilessly mowed down. Exoskeletons shattered under a withering fire that ended nearly as quickly as it had started. Those coming from behind continued pushing forward and simply clambered over their dead and dying comrades. Their clicking, chittering and clacking cries rose as a wave of sound that dominated the air.
“Sentry guns out!” reported Six.
“Shield power failing!” shouted Seven.
“Still nothing on the scope!” added Nine.
Marsay watched his men begin shifting in their trench, preparing, double-checking, waiting in agony until final contact with the enemy. They did not have to wait long.
“Hold your fire!” Marsay ordered. “Wait until they are fully exposed. Make every shot count!”
Marsay felt the peace of a desperate man fighting a desperate battle against overwhelming odds descend upon him.
Nothing else mattered.
Not the past, not the future, absolutely nothing.
There was only this moment in time, short, yet long. Everything stood out in sharp relief.
His men.
The Venturi.
The snow.
Every muzzle flash and bayonet thrust.
He fired.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Click.
The end was swift.
(750 words in story) Justin Sewall © 2022
Reviews/critiques welcome
CrossingGino was not at the bar. It was as if the sun had chosen not to rise, for he was always the first to arrive for the daily meeting. One Manhattan at ten p.m. every evening, standing order, never late. Maybe, Dom would know why.
A tall figure, dressed all in black, Dom ruled the roost. That was the cliche the denizens at the Noble Sprig spouted every evening about the brightest light in the room. But the Director bent over his bourbon in their usual booth, not a good sign.
“What happened to Gino?”
“Dissolution.”
“Why!”
“She died.
“It happened to you too. One of them ended his life, but you survived.”
“Unlike me, Gino clung to her. He attempted to funnel her energy back to the material dimension by quickly merging. Instead, he undid himself by propelling her to the next quantum level. He spared her many trials in the lower quantum levels to which she would have plunged had he not interceded, for by his action, she was cleansed. But by the nature of our being, he paid the ultimate price. We can comfort, but the humans must always find their own way.”
Dom signaled for another bourbon. “As for me, I got promoted for following the rules, Jerome. Now, I dictate who guides and guard in my place because of my example.”
He gave a sharp laugh. “But this vicious cycle continues. Tell me, Jerome, who are we to judge their reasons for leaving this plane of existence too soon? We are not like them, heartbeats, brains and tissues. We can never truly know their suffering as they do. And in the end, we do not even share the same higher levels of dimensions. Forever separate, we are photons flickering past each other when the material end comes for them.”
He raised his glass, “Booze! The one thing we can imbibe and taste, our little physical tether to this realm, the one time each day we manifest and mingle to understand what we do in the name of caring for creation. But what is truly the point, Jerome! In the end, we are all forced to traverse only certain paths. We are all prisoners of our unique existence over which we never had any control.”
Jerome eased his way into the booth. Without a word, his order of vodka appeared. The young man who delivered his drink and Dom’s refill winked at the Director in hopes of a tryst. The poor fool couldn’t know that it was the enticing vibrations of the higher dimensions bleeding through them that he felt, a quantum flux in a pinpoint.
Jerome placed his hand over Dom’s. “I didn’t feel Gino all day, but I thought it was because I was fully engaged with my charge and his mental meltdown. Did you shield me? Dom.”
The Director’s dark eyes regarded him sadly, but the warmth beneath could not be hidden. “Yes, so you could concentrate on Joe. Probability predicts that he will also escape life soon, but you still have time to help him. I believe in you, Jerome. Of the ten guardians I have directed, you are the strongest. This is your last charge before you have finished your conscripted service, and you can enjoy exploring more levels of creation. You have never failed me.”
Dom downed the rest of his drink. “Now, quickly, go back to Joe. The negative energy gnaws at him.”
The bar melted away with a breath. Jerome stood by Joe’s bed. The bottle of pills was empty. The separation by Death had already commenced.
Jerome sent waves of comforting energy to Joe, the only action he was allowed. The newly freed spirit would be spared the indignity of another day on Earth, but it would have to pay the price in many difficult transitions, until rebirth and another opportunity to rise to the higher planes was earned. Such was the evolutionary energy cycle of humans. Such was the natural order. Such was their guardianship.
For a brief instance, Jerome and Joe regarded each other, two beings of light shining with the colors of understanding. Joe’s joy turned to horror as he regained his memory of what had come before, and what he must now endure again.
*Save me!* Joe begged.
*There is another way, Jerome!* came the unbidden thought from a familiar vibration he had thought lost.
And Jerome chose.
735 words by Wordperfect count.
"Nopenitene"by J.F. Williams
After the bridge fell, a bridge I designed, my thoughts about the failure were frozen. I was legally in the clear as the fault lay with the subcontractor, which I approved, tacitly, leaving the choice to my partner, whom I trusted, and rightfully so. Instead, I am badgered by other thoughts, flashes, of nagging regrets, like telling my dad off with a swear at twelve, or ridiculing the quiet kid in school and seeing the look on his face, a watch I shoplifted when hanging with the tough kids that summer, betraying a co-worker's lie to the boss, and on and on. It was like every failure in my life came back to haunt me, but not the bridge, and yet the bridge must have been what was driving it. I needed help.
A privileged education benefits you in no other way than being drunk at times with the very wealthy, forming bonds with such people, hearing of their exceptional lives, and leveraging the connections when useful, as long as you did not ask them for money. Serge Mosely was such a connection, from Pineshade, my prep, and so I explained my problem to the trust-fund baby and asked for the name of a good shrink.
"You know what you're problem is," said Serge, rubbing his slicked down black side-bangs as he did when he was being serious. "You have too many regrets. You've been holding them in. They are coming at you now to make room for the bridge."
I was a little taken aback by Serge's apparent insight.
"I know because I was like you. Look, you know I'm rich, like crazy rich, but my parents think I'm a failure. That always bothered me. Held me back. Until I found nopenitene."
"No-what-a-teen?" I blurted.
"Nopenitene. It's a boutique pharma. FDA doesn't know about it, but it's safe."
"How? Where? What does it do?"
"It's a diluted form of a toxin from the hairs of a South American caterpillar, the Grey Fuzzy One or some name like that. In this form, it's not toxic, it just removes all regret. Period." And then he drew a deep breath and turned his eyes to stare vacantly at his drink. "It lets you move on from failure."
"And it works?"
"I've been on it for years. And I know ten other guys on it. More ambitious types. I won't tell you the names but you could recognize them. Finance guys, tech guys, real-estate guys, the ones who are always one step ahead of bankruptcy, or the law, or public humiliation. They keep going. People think they have no shame but really they have no regret. It's regret that paralyzes you."
That spoke to me. I was paralyzed by regret. Serge sent me to a Dr. Demetrious, in a strip mall near Hoboken, in an office with no signage. I got these little patches, and since I stuck the first one on, I felt free. I could see all those memories clearly, the swear, the quiet kid, the watch, none of it bothered me. Not even the bridge. I felt like I had stepped out of a medieval suit of armor.
I got a leave from work because of the bridge and how it must be affecting me, so I headed to the beach and chillaxed for a couple of months, at a resort staffed by oversensitive types serving some really lame guests who did not like to party and did not like other people partying, so I found another resort and the same problem, and on and on, but I started to panic when I had finished my last patch and I called Serge.
"No, buddy. Demetrious' place burned down. No other supply. Boutique, my friend. Try climbing a tree."
As my failures and defeats came flooding back, stiffening my joints and my jaw, I had just that same idea, which was weird. I got the sense Serge was up a tree when we spoke. There was a bristly one outside my patio at resort number six, and I felt compelled to climb. I climbed that tree and hugged it, even chewed on some leaves, and I felt whole, unburdened and free again.
Serge told me those other ten guys were climbing trees and chewing leaves, too, but it was being covered up. PR firms. The tell was you no longer heard about them in the news. The world seemed more normal, more stable, less crazy, even from up in my tree.
(750 words)
We come in peaceIt was the tenth fleet, two short of a dozen ships. They were defeated but not destroyed. In fact, not a single shot was fired. It was as if a switch had been thrown and all their weapon systems simply stopped.
The war, if it could be called that, eventually reached Earth. The results were the same. Devices, capable of devastation moments earlier, refused to work. The inert planetary defense system still orbited the planet but ignored the ships passing through.
The occupation, if I could be called that, was benign. They not only disabled the weapons that could be used against them, they disabled almost all modern weapons. Even gunpowder did not work. The theory was that some sort of biologic inhibitor was involved. It still burned, just too slowly to propel projectiles. Nuclear power still worked but not nuclear weapons. The same principle was at work, just at a quantum level.
Bitter enemies resorted to throwing spears at each other. Wars that lasted decades ended in days.
Second amendment supporters took to the streets, carrying all sorts of weapons but all unarmed. Police, who gave up carrying their own useless side arms weeks before, ignored them.
The world had come to an uneasy peace. There was still plenty of distrust to go around but acts of aggression were few and far between. There were still homicides. Humans had been killing humans since the dawn of time. But, lacking more effective means, the body count was much lower.
Finally, they come down to negotiate. We assumed it was to negotiate our surrender. Never mind “We come in peace.” Just a “Take us to your leader.”
When they discovered how fragmented our governments were, they seemed almost amused. After the United Nations convened, they got right to the point. “Humans are too violent to allow outside the solar system. The Galactic Alliance has standards. We allow even a few humans in and, well, there goes the neighborhood.”
“Well, if we stay put, can you turn everything back on?”
“The ability to destroy entire cities, to cause death to millions of people? Is that what you are demanding we restore to you?”
Mod
Tom Olbert => Lichtman
Jot Russell => ***JF
Paula Friedman => ***JF, Lichtman, Justin
Jeremy Lichtman => ***JF, Marianne
Justin Sewall => Marianne, Lichtman, Paula
Marianne Petrino => Paula, Tom, Lichtman
J.F. Williams => Tom, Jot, Marianne, Lichtman, Paula
Greg Krumrey => Jot
Winner:
Nopenitene by J.F. Williams
Mod
Element: the number "10"
For this month's challenge, I turned to the Tarot deck for inspiration and drew one of the worst cards fortune-wise, the Ten of Swords, which indicates failure or defeat. As last month was the contest's 10th anniversary, and my 10th win, the number "10" is oddly appropriate.