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Chatterbox: Inkwell
Welcome to the
Welcome to the Glass Game.
You didn't know you were a player.
You didn't know anything except that the grey clouds oozing across the sky looked especially mystical that day. In fact, the thick rolls and speckles gathered into a roaring thunderhead reminded you of a giant bird of prey swooping over the edge of Earth.
Most of you don't like the rain.
But three of you were out in the oncoming storm.
The Poet was on her favorite rock in the woods, staring up through the shaggy arms of trees, her absent mind seeing only metaphors and brushing over reality.
The Artist was out on the moor. Waves of tall grass tickled the edge of her coat and weeds swarmed around her ankles. If she looked down, she would not have been able to see her shoes. One hand supported her easel as the first drop of rain splashed onto her painting. Confound it all, she thought and shook her fist at the sky.
The Messenger was hopping over fallen locks and little winding strips of water. His dirty, bare feet flew through the air. The satchel at his side slapped against his thigh, and a piece of paper fell out, although he didn't notice.
The rest of you were indoors and elsewhere. It did not matter where you were. It did not matter who you were, not to any of the rest. Not until a single, rather unimportant second of time. Not until 4:50 PM, August September 5, in the swaying old house that stood (or rather, leaned) on the moor. The Gentleman was there, as well as The Realtor and The Son. They were taking a tour of the old house, which had been left to the Gentleman by an old relative he'd forgotten he had. The Son wished he wasn't there. He wanted to be in the car, practicing driving. Or at home, at his electronic keyboard. Would his father let him drive all the way back home? Probably not. It was too much to ask for.
He was looking out the window when all the sudden, his watch beeped. 10 minutes til 5. For a second, nothing happened.
And then it thundered. The house shook. The Artist's easel just about fell over. The Poet threw her body over her precious pieces.
Every one of you hunted for shelter, and you found it. The house on the moor's door stood open for you. Or rather, The Son held it open shyly. The Artist came in first, then The Messenger, panting. Last, the Poet, dripping.
The Son looked around for any more stranglers. An eerie dust of wind hurried by, dragging its fingers through his hair. There was no one else. Yet.
You began to look around. The Realtor wasn't very happy about this. She leaned against the railing, checking her phone.
The Son and The Artist began to talk. The first found the latter scatter-brained and friendly, and he liked her immediately. But The Artist did not like The Son.
"Well," said The Poet, "I guess we're stuck here." No one listened to her. The tick of time grew louder and louder in everyone's ears. The thunderheads were now raging, flaming pheonix's, wings thrown back and beating the sky into a severe wind.
Something happened. Of course something happened, or there wouldn't be a story. But this story was a little different then most. There was no clarity, no beginning or warning. It just sort of happened right then, without an introduction.
What was it? One of you opened the cupboard in an upstairs room of the house. In it was nothing but 2 balls of oblique glass. You reached out and touched it. It felt like running your hand across the moon.
Who was it?
Was it The Artist? The Messenger? The Realtor? The Poet? The Son? The Gentleman? It was you. We know it was you. We have our eyes on everywhere. And if you won't confess, the truth will come out soon enough.
So which of you was it? Answer me this and I, Glass Shard, Countess of Alltrubia; the land under sight, and Mistress of the Great Mirror will continue weaving my tale.
submitted by Glass Shard, age 16
(August 21, 2018 - 4:42 pm)
(August 21, 2018 - 4:42 pm)
Fine. Then, may I be the son?
*Gender transformation begins*
(August 22, 2018 - 6:53 pm)
Fragment 2, the beginning of round 2.
The Poet was chosen by Neko, the first commenter, to be the game piece that moves ahead in this round.
~
The Poet withdrew her hand quickly. She felt a searing pain flash across her palm. But it wasn't as if she had been burned by something hot, no, it felt like she was burned by something cold.
She had the inexplicable urge to touch the orb again, even though her hand was still red and tender. Before she could walk up to the cupboard again, however, the house shuddered. This time, it wasn't thunder.
"What the devil was that?" The Gentleman said, coming up the stairs just in time to see the empty cupboard slide away from the wall. Classic. The Poet noted. The Gentleman would have appreciated it very much too, had he not been so terribly busy with his own affairs chasing around in his head just then. And always, actually.
Behind the cupboard were three doors. The first marked with a spear-like emblem over the door. The second had a coiled snake over it. The third had two comedy/tragedy masks above it.
"I think I do want this old house after all," The Gentleman muttered.
"We should go in," The Poet suggested immediately, her hand already on the handle of the first door.
"Of course not, of course not," The Gentleman replied, turning back towards the staircase. I'll get The Realtor, talk this over. This definitely wasn't in the floor plans, no it was not."
"I'm going to go in now," The Poet exclaimed, her heart beating wildly.
"Well..." The Gentleman looked from the staircase to the doors, torn by curiosity and his grown-up sense to fuss over everything with other people.
"If we go in, we should choose that one," The Gentleman said, pointing towards the third door, "looks a little less daunting, don't you think?" The Poet frowned. She didn't know why, but she desperately wanted to go into the first door. It felt like war, drama, tension, and ballads. The things she fed off like a preying insect.
Meanwhile, the others downstairs had passed the shaking off as another roll of thunder and were talking. All except one, who had crept up the stairs softly and was intently listening to the exchange between The Poet and the Gentleman.
Who was the spy? Which of you would take such underhanded ways? Is it The Artist, The Messenger, The Realtor, or The Son?
And who's door should they go through, The Poet's or The Gentleman's?
Round 2 begins. You can each take a turn. For your turn, you can either respond with a game peice for an answer (only the first two answers will be chosen), ask to come before me, ask for help from my advisor THE Owl, write a description or from a character's point of view as you see fit, or pass your turn.
Answer my questions, and I will continue weaving my tale.
(August 22, 2018 - 3:21 pm)
Ah! May I take the Gentleman? Because well, perhaps the poet is a little too... curious.
(August 22, 2018 - 4:45 pm)
I choose to write a description. As I am the Poet, I shall write a poem.
——————————————————
the cold
spreads its tendrils
through my veins
enticement overtaking me
like a poison
this feeling controls me
as my hand
darts out
fitting over the smooth knob
it feels perfect
It must be perfect
for I have looked enough
and now I must leap
into the tale
that must await on the other side
leap
and fall
and let it choke my lungs
and fill them up
as I drown in whatever waits
i must
before my throbbing heartbeat
constricts me.
——————————————————
Not my best work but...meh. Just some nice free-verse.
(August 22, 2018 - 6:35 pm)
Is the messenger spying for someone else?
(August 22, 2018 - 5:16 pm)
Ahem.
Maybe. Maybe not.
Remember; a question to me counts as your turn whether I've answered you in a satisfactory way or not. Someone answer the two questions with a character in order for the next round to proceed. Whose door has been chosen? And who was the spy? Are you hinting that it was The Messenger, Gracia? It very well might be. It is your choice. You are the story.
There are more characters to yet appear in the story. You do not have to assume a character if you do not want to, but I, being a wise owl, a cultured owl, an owl who's advice you can heed, encourage it. But remember. You have to answer the questions, as those determine what happens next.
I'll give you another hint, for I am such a generous—no, a magnimonious owl. The hint is this: choosing the right character as the answer to one of the Countess' questions at the end of the fragments effects the game. You must move through the game to complete it. That is all I can say.
So tell me, who's door do we go through? And who is this stealthy spy? It's your decision. Make your turn. The first two answers posted will be counted. If not answering the question, you can do something else with your turn, such as call on me.
But be warned, I am, admittable, a loquacious owl as well as a scholarly one. My answer may bore you. Or anger you. And as you can see, I am a most humble owl as well.
So choose your answer. Choose wisely.
(August 22, 2018 - 7:50 pm)
Assuming Tuxedo Kitten's post as the answer to which door was taken -- though I quite disagree; have a little courage, Tux! Danger is excitement! -- I wonder, does The Artist's question count as an answer? For if it does or if it does not, I must agree. I think The Messenger -- one who flies from person to person, delivering information -- one who may have, curious, slipped behind the Poet -- a Poet who seems really quite scatterbrained and disastrous -- and might have seen something worthy of a place on paper -- that Messenger seems a likely suspect. One who may have crept upstairs after they had disappeared through a doorway -- one who may or may not have chosen the same doorway --
My sincerest apologies, THE Owl. I seem to be getting a little ahead of myself. Probably just the effects of this storm -- this very... unusual storm.
(August 22, 2018 - 11:09 pm)
Okay. Sure. The Messenger is the spy.
(August 23, 2018 - 5:43 am)
WOOT THATS MEEEEEEEEEEEE
(August 24, 2018 - 10:35 am)
May I assume the role of the Realtor?
(August 23, 2018 - 7:44 pm)
TOP!
(August 25, 2018 - 10:23 pm)
Could I play some part in this? Hmmm THE Owl are you St. Owl, Wise Owl, Owlgirl... Wow there's a lot of Owls on the CB-but of course THE Owl is the Owl.. This is confusing.
(August 26, 2018 - 1:46 am)
Can I move others' pieces? If so, the Artsist sees something behind the door. She sees something... more... than any of the other onlookers, as it is only her eye that can see it. The eye of an Artist. So she steps forward, into a new masterpiece.
I hape to assume one of the soon-to-be-introduced characters when the time is right. Er, write.
(August 26, 2018 - 11:11 am)
Ahh, The Gentleman's door has been chosen. The group separates.
And The Messenger is the spy. A clue is given.
Fragment 3
Round 3
Both The Poet and The Gentleman put a hand on the two door handles.
The Poet pressed down on hers. A quiet swoosh of air was released but she did not open it. Instead, she looked over at The Gentleman, who looked like he was listening to something. Something beyond the thunderstorm. Something coming from the door. But she didn't hear it. The whimsical melody of the past only plays inside the ears of those who have grown old enough to fine-tune their very bones to it.
The Gentleman heard himself as a boy, running through woods, cornfields, and attic corners with BB guns, bright, snapping firecrackers, and old coffee cans full of nuts, bolts, screws, rubber bands, or whatever else he could get his dirt-smudged fingers on. He heard his friends calling from a far away hill while he stopped to fix a flat tire on his much-loved blue bicycle on a road somewhere he couldn't quite remember how to get to.
Suddenly, The Gentleman wanted to open the door very much. It felt, rather ridiculously, like it would be an adventure straight out of his childhood, far away from the desk, the phone calls, the bothersome realtor, taking the recycling to the dump, sweeping out the garage, and weed-whacking the field he always hoped he would be able to play baseball on with his son.
He slid the door open a crack.
And just then there was a loud thump from the stairway.
"I found him," The Artist announced, moving aside to show The Messenger watching shyly from behind her, "watching you from the stairwell. Little sneak," she said. But she gave the boy a friendly pinch on the ear with her thumb and forefinger and sly, joking little smile as she said it.
"And what might you be doing on the stairs?" The Gentleman asked. The Artist threw up her hands in response.
"All right, all right, you've caught me. But whatever you're doing, I want in." She rushed to the third door, where The Gentleman stood staring into the sliver of blackness caught beyond the doorframe. For a moment, she stared at the masks on the wall, looking down with empty eyes.
"Just for a look," he said, "it's an old house. You never know what you might find." And they went in. The first thing the pair noticed was the nasty, oppressive sort of cave-feeling you get from being in a small, dark place. In fact, The Artist could have sworn she actually heard water dripping steadily a long way off. After a few steps, neither could see anything.
"We should have brought a flashlight," The Gentleman commented.
"Mmm," The Artist agreed. She ran her hand along the rough passage walls, turning back to look over her shoulder at the door.
Only, there was no door. Only darkness morphing into horrific shapes before her eyes, changing and yawning and despairing all around her.
Meanwhile, The Son and The Realtor had joined the others upstairs, and all were peeking curiously into the first door at The Poet's lead.
"I dunno. It just looks like a room to me," The Son said, but then wished he hadn't spoken. What did he know, anyway? He looked around for The Artist. She wasn't there. She hadn't heard him.
"I say we go in," The impatient poet charged the group.
"I don't remember seeing this on the house plans. In fact, I don't see how these doors could be here at all," The Realtor mused, tapping her long, perfectly sunset pink nails on her phone.
But The Poet could not wait any longer. Her door burst open, and she and The Son took an eager step forward. Before his eyes could adjust to the dark, The Son felt a tug on his shirt and he jumped, turning around quickly. The Messenger faced him, eyes wide, satchel still slung over his shoulder. A piece of paper was on the floor.
"Here," The Son said, "is this yours?" He bent to pick it up. The Messenger nodded and took the paper. For a second, The Son could see strange symbols on it.
"What—" he began to say, but then stopped himself. It would be rude to ask. The Messenger nodded twice, very shortly, his fingers drawing tightly around the paper. He glanced down on it like he had never seen it before. But it must have come from his bag, of course.
The Messenger made a sign with his hands.
"What?" The Son asked. He made it again.
"I'm sorry, I haven't studied sign language for a long time." The Son slowly bent down on his knees so that his face was level with the little boy's. He fished around in his pocket for a pencil, but couldn't find one.
"Do you have a pen?" He asked The Realtor. She reached past her chunky necklace into the pocket of her coat.
"Here."
The Messenger took the pen and wrote something along the edge of his paper. Watching expectantly, The Son waited for familiar letters to form.
"Game board." He read aloud, "umm..a game board?" He looked around, confused. The Messenger looked at him expectantly.
"Sure. A game board. Why not?"
"Hey! Are you coming? The Poet called from halfway inside the passage. Shrugging at the Realtor, The Son got up and followed her, The Messenger at his heals.
He heard the sharp tap, tap of The Realtor's shoes a second later.
Game board. Game board. The words played inside his head. He glanced around in the darkness, and suddenly found that slowly, gradually, it became lighter as the door behind him melted away.
Round 3 begins.
Two groups have been chosen, and that means two leaders will develop. Should it be The unsure Son? The busied Gentleman? The Curious Poet? Or another game peice? Who will lead them across this game board? 2 game peices must be chosen.
(August 29, 2018 - 8:50 pm)
(August 30, 2018 - 3:09 pm)