Abigsil, could I put you on team one? (Or is it the Fluffernuggets? )

Any Questions I looked over?

Team 1 is fine with me! Thanks for letting me join! I would like to participate in this event if that's all right with everyone. It is 600 words precisely.

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As the clock struck midnight, the oldest tree in the world fell over. I was stretched out on my blue-striped living room couch, eating ice cream out of the carton and watching the ball drop when I heard it. A creaking noise, like something giving way, a short silence, then an incredible THUMP. I sat up, placed my carton of vanilla ice cream on the floor and rushed to the window.

There it was. Mrs. Candice’s oak tree, which had reputedly been planted by her Great-Great-Great-Grandmother (this was impressive because Mrs. Candice was at least ninety herself), was lying, dead, on her lawn. One gigantic root had created a dent in the outside wall of her front room. 

“No…” I breathed. That tree was our town’s claim to fame, what put New Cresthill on the map (or, more realistically, the tourist guidebook). Nobody really knew for sure if the stories about it were true, but if we trusted them, then the tallest, oldest, and best climbing tree in the world had just met its end. 

I dashed down the stairs, snatched my parka from the coat closet, and ran out the door. Half the neighborhood was gathered there already. 

“I don’t believe—“

“Saddest thing—“

“—Older than dirt—“ 

The crowd was buzzing like a hive of bees. I pushed to the front of the muddle. The tree looked bigger than it had ever seemed. It also seemed a little odd. I squinted at it through the dim light. I stepped toward it. 

“Hey!” Someone said. “Keep away from the tree!” 

I paid them no attention. I leaned down over the large oak and knocked thrice. NOK. NOK. NOK. It sounded… hollow. Too empty for a tree of its size. “Listen!” I yelled. The crowd froze. I knocked again. NOK. Someone else came forward and began running his hands down the trunk. The people pushed and jostled, trying to see. I was shoved back into a mess of children who were throwing sticks and was bopped on the noggin by a few wooden pieces. Somewhere in this mess, the thought came to me that I hadn’t seen Mrs. Candice. I did not think she had slept through all the ruckus, and the tree was hers after all. Just as I realized this, the person who had been examining the tree let out a yell. 

“LOOK!” I dove to the front of the mess again. The young man had his finger on a place in the tree. As we watched, his fingernail dug into the wood, and with a mighty pull on his part…

A door popped open. 

“AAAAH!” a few people screamed. 

“OOOOH!” several people breathed. 

“Whaaat?” the people who were in the back demanded. 

“HEEE-YA!” the children throwing sticks cried, letting loose a fresh torrent. 

A head popped out of the door. This time, everyone (even the children) said, “AAAAAH!” Including me. What was I supposed to do? For all my knowledge, it could have been a serial killer. But it wasn’t. (It never is, except when you don’t expect them to be a murderer. In that case, they always are.)

It was Mrs. Candice. 

“Oy vey!” she sighed. “The jig is up.”

“Whaaat?” Everyone demanded. 

“It’s a fake tree.” She said. “I made it to attract attention to New Cresthill. It’s mechanical and everything. I went inside tonight to make it spew confetti for New Years, but it malfunctioned.” She hung her head. “I’m sorry. Now you know your beloved tree is just a fraud.”

“It’s fine!” I said. “This way is better. Trees are everywhere, but New Cresthill is the only place in the world to have a mechanical one!” 

Everyone cheered.

l peer around the park in the faint dawn light and spot Westmoreland. Having never seen him face to face, l am honestly shocked. For a world-conqueror-to-be, he isn’t much, a skinny man in his late twenties, who has unnatural orange hair and wire-frame glasses.

Beyond him, the sky is barely light, a misty rain hanging in the air that blurs and stretches the yellow city lights, as if this reality was not quite as solid as we thought it was, all in a dim light, like a strange dream.

Westmoreland paces the rough wooden platform on which he stands, in the center of the park, white lab-coat quietly brushing across the wood in the deadly silence. Arranged around the platform are six metal arms, each ending in a long metal rod, rounded at the end.

A teleportation device, l’m guessing. What Westmoreland will do with it exactly, l don’t know, but it’s certain to be evil.

l debate making an grand entrance for a second, and then decide it isn't worth it. l unceremoniously step out from behind the tree, and at the sound of my strange, heavy footsteps, Westmoreland whirls around. He raises an eyebrow upon recognizing me. “Fatell. The cyborg.”

“By the authority ensured to me by the United Federation of Security of the Planet Earth, l order you to stand down and halt your evil plan.” My voice shakes a bit. Not that Westmoreland is ever going to stand down, but you’ve got to try.

l step across the flag stones until l am right beside one of the metal arms, looking up to the platform.  We stare at each other, Westmoreland looking me over, part-machine, part-human, glaring defiantly, while there he stands on the platform, king of the world.

“Why, why all this evil? Do you even know who you’re hurting?” l wonder into the rainy silence.

“l’m not evil,” Westmoreland says, fiercely. l can see something in his eyes, something l can’t name. Rage? Fear? Something almost…..sorrowful. He backs away, to the center of the platform.

l am puzzled by this. Not evil?

“l didn’t chose this path of good or evil. None of us are truly good or evil, Fatell. We’re not truly for one side or the other. We can’t be, can’t you see this, Fatell? We’re all shades of gray. We’re human.”

l can now identify what l see  in his eyes. Hope. Nostalgic hope, but hope nonetheless.

“l’m not.” l say, horsley. “l’m mostly machine, more than anyone ever realizes. Human? Most definitely not.”

l feel limp inside, like something just died in me. l feel dull. l feel gray.

“No. You’re the most human of us all, Fatell. The rest of us are conquerors, revolutionizers. You’re not.”

Westmoreland reaches inside his coat pocket, activating something. The metal arms began to buzz. l jump back, watching, dull eyed. l know l can stop him.

l don’t.

Electricity appears along the metal arms, two bolts of energy spreading to connect them. And then they hang there, for a single, crystal second.

“Happy New Year, Fatell. You can’t stop me, in the end.”

And then in a motion barely catch by my enhanced vision, the energy converges to the end of each metal rod, then blasting out to the center of the platform, where Westmoreland stands. He, the metal arms, and the platform are suddenly gone, leaving…..nothing.

With that, l feel a strange coldness spreading through me, a sort of dull emptiness.

The city around me fizzles with life and energy.

But all l feel is…..dead, cold. l look to the gray sky.

l though things would be different.

~~~~~~~~

Here you go. Read and enjoy :) 

Keep posting you stories guys!!  Judging starts on Monday!

Can i judge?

Sure KittyGirl!

The only people who have posted their entries are Micearenice, Jarvis, Curio, Amber, Abigail, and Shadow Dragon! Judging begans tomorrow, and all entries MUST BE ENTERED BY WEDNESDAY. 

PLEASE POST YOUR STORIES I REALLY WANT TO SEE THEM! 

ENTRIES ARE DUE ON WEDNESDAY PLEASE!

So, this story started as 780 words long. I had to edit it down A LOT, which means it might not be of the most amazing quality. Now it is exactly 600 words.

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

Lizzy peered around the park in the faint dawn light and spotted a rose.

This was no ordinary rose. In the middle of winter it grew twisting up a tree. It was a formidable flower. Instead of the flower’s contours being smooth, beautiful and romantic (like a rose should be), it was sharp, angular, and (this was most scary) charcoal black. Somehow, a charcoal-black rose can never be absolutely perfectly natural. No, this rose was not natural at all.

Lizzy was afraid. She pivoted on her heel and started running--

When she heard a voice in her ear.

No, don’t run. Please stay.

She felt a sharp tugging at her collar. She whirled around to see that she was being pulled to the strangled tree by the black rose itself! She was dragged into the tree.

The rose poked her with a thorn, and everything went charcoal black.

She woke in a small, confined space. She spoke in a loud voice, hoping someone would hear her. “Where am I?”

Someone did hear. 

“My name is Merlin. And you are inside of this tree.”

“THE Merlin? The great wizard?!”

“Yes. That is me. And who, might I ask, are you?”

“My name is… um… I can’t remember.”

“Well then. We’ll just have to wait until you remember it. In the meantime, why in the world were you out at this time of night, especially on New Year’s Eve? Or do you not remember that, either?”

“Well... "

Be polite.

"Actually, I do. It was my brother…he knew I was planning on staying up until midnight. So he locked me in the bathroom, to keep me from having any fun. But, before he went away, he shoved a note through the crack in the door. It said…I can’t. I’m sorry. It’s too painful.”

“It will help me help you.”

“Fine. It said that he needed me to stay in there, or else bad things would happen… it was threatening.”

“Is that all it said? Those exact words?”

“Yes.”

“Continue.” 

“I opened the bathroom window and crawled out. I ran around the house to the front. We keep a spare key in the front garden, underneath a little statue. I picked the statue up, but the key wasn’t there. And then I heard a voice… “

“What did it say?”

She shook her head. Too horrible, that voice was.

“Anyway, I was so scared, I ran to the park. It was the only place.”

“Oh, child. I know who you are.”

“Who am I? And how? How do you know?”

“You are Lizzy, my great-great-great-great-granddaughter.”

“ME? I am? And how do you know?”

“I know because only a wizard like you would have been called to this magical garden on this night. It is the anniversary of the date I imprisoned Rosil, a force of much evil, in this tree. But she had grown stronger and stronger, until she was able to put me in the tree in her place. That was 15 years ago, the night your brother was born. Some of the knowledge of my defeat escaped into his subconscious that night. He does not know it, but he has not been threatening you. He has been trying to protect you.”

“Really?” Said Lizzy. She couldn’t be a wizard!

“Lizzy, he failed to protect you, but he also failed to know this: I sense that you have magical power coursing through your veins that is ten times stronger than mine. You can get us out of this tree, you can defeat Rosil, and then… well, after that, Lizzy, you could save the world.” 

As the clock struck midnight, I dashed down the road of hardened clay paving stones, inwardly cursing myself. It was standard thief procedure to always show up in time for a ransom, no matter how small, because it struck fear into the benefactor. Baghdad in 841 was normally a bustling and busy place, but at night on New Year’s eve, it was quieter than a mausoleum. Most people were huddled inside, black curtains pulled over their doors and windows, fearing that evil spirits were walking the streets. Nobody desired to be caught outdoors on New Year’s, nobody, that is, but thieves. For us, especially for those of the Forty, it was the perfect time to resolve old matters and ransoms that had been neglected before. 

When I reached the Imperial garden out of breath, I was surprised to find the sack sitting there. This worthless lamp had to be very important to the merchant if he would sneak out at night in hopes of retrieving it. He knew the risks. Who didn’t? As I shouldered the sack, I shuddered to think of what the Forty would do if they knew what I was really doing with the money. You were supposed to take two-thirds of it to the stronghold, and keep one-third for yourself. I kept it all. But not for myself. Back on Dawood street, there was a tall, 3-story house that looked like it belonged to a carpet merchant. In fact, the top floors were the living quarters for a group of young genies. There powers and ability to grant three wishes set them apart from the rest of the population. I was the only one who knew about them and kept them safe from enslavement. 

I set the old lamp down, and as I did, it slipped in my fingers. Immediately, a blue glow lit up the night. Oh no, I thought. Oh no, no no. A pale figure formed out of blue smoke blossomed before me. As the features became more distinct, I let out a gasp. It was Raoul, a boy who had gone missing a week ago from my group. “Traitor,” he scowled. “You were about to sell me for a ransom!”

“I didn’t know you were in there!”

“Well, you should have checked!” he growled. It was true. “Hurry, set me free before the merchant get’s back.”

Nervously, I emptied a pouch of cat’s hairs that was hung around my neck. To set a genie free, you have to burn them and the genie has to inhale the smoke. I hesitated. Nobody really knew what happened when a genie was set free. It was strictly forbidden. They had bottled up so much rage that just setting them free could be the spark that ignited the power keg. Yet, I found myself emptying the pouch and lighting the hairs with  a tiny bit of oil. 

“Ahhhhhhhh…” Raoul got a dreamy expression on his face. Then, his eyes bulged. I just managed to bury my face in the wall of a nearby house when the explosion occurred. 

Streaks of fire trailed across the sky, sending off miniature explosions like stones skipping across a pond. Everything where the lamp had been was a soundless burst of light. Fire crackled, but passed right through the houses as if they were made of air. Nothing caught. When it finally finished, there was nothing remaining except a star-shaped smear of ash next to the lamp, which was amazingly still intact. “C’mon,” I said, grabbing Raoul by the shoulders. “Let's get home before someone else...notices.” 

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Part of a story idea I had called Arabian Nightmares. Go Team 1! 

Byte says ycow. I am a person, Byte, not a cow.  

I forgot about this so I guess I won't be in this event.