I decided to submit a story to the Blizzard creative writing contest. I’ve played a bit of starcraft in my day, and thought it would be a fun challenge to write a story in that universe. The minimum word length was 3000 words, which is a bit longer than I usually write. Nevertheless, here it is:

My submission

Back to regularly scheduled blog / stories from now on.

-Tom

On the Pole (part 2)

Out in the desert sun a figure stirred under a small rocky outcropping. It stumbled forward into the light. Like a man, it walked upright. The figure paused a moment, as if unsure to continue. Bones of rodents and birds crunched under the metal of its boots. The figure stopped again and looked down at it’s feet… his feet. He wanted to sleep. His arms felt heavy. He fell.

He woke up what felt like a few minutes later. There had to be a way to get back, to reach someone. He grabbed at his discarded helmet, but his arm did not seem to respond. Where was his arm? He suddenly felt nauseated. Moments later he was sitting against a rock watching a surprisingly large amount of vomit trail away into a fissure. He felt better.

Now he was walking again, walking fast. He no longer seemed to have trouble balancing and the sun felt great. He looked down and was surprised to see he was covering ground at a healthy speed. As he moved across the scarred earth his mind started to slowly piece together the flitting memories of the previous week. Among the confusion of imagery and partially recollected conversations, one fact came up again and again: He was a murderer.

***

“He musta killed somebuddy,” Ged was sick of standing in the sun. Lyle said nothing, just kept staring through the gun scope.

“His wife mebbe, or a govey…” Ged look over at Lyle, “Might be a psycho, yah I bet it! Put that psycho onna pole!”

The radio buzzed a distorted voice. Ged grabbed at his reciever, “Brenner? Hold the dang button down yah dronehumper!” He released his own call button and waited. One of the men lying in the back of the idling jeep chuckled. Ged walked over to the jeep letting out his wrenching laugh, “A drone bone! You know wha- ”

“Base corner stone incline,” Brenner’s voice rasped through the poor radio speakers. Lyle twisted a few dials on the Nikos and peered for a moment through scope. He looked at a readout on the side of the tripod and nodded to Ged.

“Gawt it! An hurry it up out there,” Ged belted into the reciever. He felt annoyed. The sun was bearing down on him with a ruthless heat and he suddenly felt the desperate urge to flee- to leave the desert and the outposts and go somewhere nice… somewhere safe. And then, just as suddenly the feeling passed and his uncanny calm returned. The sun did not notice.

“It’s friggin hot,” mumbled Ged.

Some distance away, Brenner wiped sweat off of his bald head. The day had been long and slow. The same furious sun burned the air around him as he walked along the base of a small plateau. His was a dangerous job, but he was not accosted by the same bouts of dread that plagued the rest of the crew. He wanted to be out here, away from people and politics. Away from the failed relationships and the soured dreams. Most of all, away from the military. He lifted his reciever.

“Base contour plateau,” Brenner stood motionless immediately after speaking. He held the pole steady and upright.

“Gaaaawwt it,” Ged’s voice popped through the radio a few moments later.

Brenner continued on, enjoying the quiet boredom. He briefly wondered what crap Ged was feeding the other crew members about him. He’d probably return that night to hear crew member whispering about fantastical murders and scandalous political schemes. They would never guess the truth. He was still chuckling to himself when he heard the scream.

On the pole (part 1)

Brenner had seen dead bodies before. These had been dead for a fairly long time. The buried limbs and shreds of clothing were mostly obscured by a layer of dirt and rock. Suddenly he realized he had never seen dead bodies at all, not in person, just in the news. He had certainly never stood on them.

“You out here for fun?” Lyle was making one of his rare insights. He was usually quiet, so the other men turned. Brenner grimaced.

“I didn’t say that,” Brenner leaned against the pole, digging it into the dry dirt.

“Then was you… what was you caught for?” Lyle rubbed a scar on his arm. He seemed completely unaware of the sudden quiet. Brenner didn’t answer.

“He’s prawlly married a zerglin if they put ‘im onna pole!” Ged let out a strangled laugh, “GADDAMIT, dang flippin gun!”

The men around Ged backed away. Ged had bumped the leg of tripod mounted Nikos laser, “it was… I ain’t… Brenner go run the rod, we can’t jus’ eff around all day.”

Brenner grabbed the pole and started off. Lyle lumbered over to the gun, he placed his large hands over the tripod legs with steady care and pushed them down into dirt. He was a strange sight: A hulking leather-skinned man hunched over the tiny dials on the Nikos. He peered through the scope for a moment and then slowly tilted his body away from gun.

“It’s zeroed up again,” Lyle slowly stepped from between the tripod legs, very careful not to touch. He looked up. By now, Brenner was barely visible on the jagged orange boulders that made up most of the area. Heat waves distorted his distancing form.

Ged nodded, “How’re we on sattelite?”

The shorter of the two men standing with Ged at the back of the jeep looked at a tiny computer monitor, “We’re bout a tenth off- but heck, considerin nobody been out here for this long we’re gold!”

Ged looked around at the craters,”a tenth… that’s good enough for government work!” He let out another oddly pained laugh, “Git Brenner in the sights.”

Communication

Marshal took a deep breath and stepped into the room. He had caught the faint and unpleasant aroma from the connecting hallway. Once inside the room the sheer rancid force of the smell drew the breath from his lungs. He allowed himself to slowly inhale, and then vomited.

“Who…? Get… Dawson! Get that kid outta here!” The detective glared at Dawson. Dawson turned slowly toward Marshal.

“AY SAMMAY!” Dawson’s voice muffled through the police cap clutched over his nose and mouth, “KID’S UP ERE!”

“We have gaddamn radios, shshh” Detective Pratchett coughed, “shit.”

Dawson turned back to Pratchett, eyes wide, “Hey the kid can ‘ear yah!”

“YEAH I HEAR YAH!” Sammy was calling from from downstairs.

“WHAT..?” Dawson grabbed his radio with his free hand and held it infront of his hat, “what?”

There were a few moments of silence. Pratchett tried to say something but burst into a fit of coughing. Marshal ran out of the room. The radio in Dawson’s hand cackled to life with a gritty burst of static.

“I can hear you just… hey!” The radio died suddenly. The two men could hear a scuffling of feet down the hallway. Pratchett’s eyes were watering. Sammy walked into the room.

“You puke?” Sam was looking at Detective Pratchett, “the hell is that smell?”

Security

The two travelers were bruised, frozen, bleeding and starved, but they had to push on. The little beast snarled at his companion. His companion, though several times larger, cringed at the outburst.

“Haaarruk,” the large creature grimaced and gasped, “please…”

“Fassssssster!” the small monster’s tongue scraped against his teeth and dug his claws deeper into the neck of his unfortunate friend. It had been six days since the two of them had fled the island of their incarceration. Both were dangerous and merciless, and both had taken many lives before finally being captured by the civil guard.

They had been tortured cruelly, and only managed to escape because of some clerical error involving poorly converted measurements. No doubt some pitiful worker was being tortured even now for the loss of the prisoners. Harruk was counting on the civil guards’ dutiful adherence to torture procedures to slow any pursuit.

“Harrruk, it hurrts,” the giant spoke with slow deliberate syllables. He felt the lack of air sap at his strength.

“You musssst continue!” The small beast’s own body ached from clinging to the giant’s neck.

The giant stopped for a moment looking upward. He tried to grab at Harruk once more, but the effort was wasted. The creature had intentionally positioned himself in a place the giant could not reach. The giant was still weighed down by chains all over his body. Back on the island he had been affixed to a guardtower. It now floated some distance behind the two beasts, still chained and (by some strange architectural phenomenon)  still upright.

“The sea is getting… tooo deeep,” said the giant, the water had risen to his ears, “It will be difffffficult.”

When the two escaped monsters finally made it to land, blue in the face and covered in all manner of sea-life, they were no longer a danger to anyone. Only the guardtower remained. Many years later, it was found still standing and half buried in the sand. No one in the surrounding villages knew why the tower stood there, but felt unnerved by it’s presence. It took very little discussion among the villagers to decide to repair the tower and keep it manned by a guard every night.

Spill

Coffee pooled on the hardwood floor, “I thought you were gone…”

“I’m not, do you want to read my draft?” She held up the manuscript and then pulled it back, “It’s just a first run through… it’s not very good yet, just kinda… ideas.”

Martha stepped back from the stack of papers, “But, I heard…” She staggered.

“I really think this is the one, I think I’ve got something you know? Something like, like literary,” Jesse stepped back from the swirling coffee, “It’s just a draft, but it’s good you know?”

Martha looked down at her own feet, “I should have… why didn’t you call me? e-mail?” She could feel the first touch of warm coffee creep into the toe of her socks.

“I printed it out, though- to write notes in, it’s long huh?” Jesse flipped to a random page, and skimmed it over.

“I heard you left, I would have called, I thought you left,” Martha was still holding a spoon in her right hand.

“I didn’t leave…” Jesse was still looking at the page.

“I was busy, too, school…” Martha started to tremble, her eyes watered.

Jesse flipped the book closed and stepped back again, careful to avoid the broken shards, “You wanna come get some coffee?”

Martha quivered, her whole body tensed and tears flooded her reddening cheeks, “You little bitch!”

Jesse laughed, peeking up from between locks of hair, “Yeah? let’s get some coffee, bitch.”

Martha’s smile erupted as she lifted her foot gingerly from the spill, “Yeah, well I’m gonna need something stronger if you want me to read your dumbass script…”

“Yeah, well it’s just a first draft you know…” Jesse started out the door.

Martha chased after, her right foot squelching, “I know! I know! Shutup!”

Memories

At first it was all sand. No people, walls, or structures. No roads to follow and no towering spires. Just sand. And despite the profoundly humbling thought of being born of that sand, and the sheer awe of human creation, she wanted nothing but to destroy. Every precarious and wonderful citadel she craved would crumble. Every wide and spanning archway inflamed her urge to crush. Even as she marveled at everything around her, she would inevitably conjure terrible and devastating ruination in her mind.

She was ashamed of how quickly the violent images surfaced, often reciting her lessons out loud to clear her mind. But the power tickled at her fingertips and begged her to exercise her desires.

Sometimes the feelings fought with cunning logic. Questions and rationalizations coursed through her in a disjointed array: This was a land of freedom, wasn’t it? She could do as she pleased. It was not as if someone could stop her. The people around her never seemed to appreciate the splendor of the fortress, they deserved to lose it. And in any case, what would the destruction mean in terms of the life of the earth? These massive structures were insignificant in the full scope of the cosmos… At any moment, her resolve could falter and nothing would be spared.

A man looked up from his newspaper, “Didn’t she just finish building all that?”

“Yeah, hold on I’m getting it,” a woman was holding up her camera phone, “maybe another one for youtube- crap I’m getting a glare off the sea…”

The man watched his daughter stomp around, “maybe try from the shade,” he shifted in his seat.

“Huh?” the woman was squinting at the phone, “hey Anna, look at Mommy!”

The man was suddenly annoyed, “let her play,” he grumbled and returned to his paper, “it’s just sand.”

The Listeners

Kyle didn’t dare breathe. The listeners were there. He could not see them in the darkness, but he knew they were there somewhere, craning their necks- their ears- waiting for him to make the slightest sound. He felt them nearing, the usual crisp tickle to the air was dampened as if by a warm, lazy seat cushion. He had to find his brother.

Kyle’s brother, Ned, was reading a book about motorcycles. Little Neddy was passionately interested in thirty-eight of the fifty Lemmington Motorized Bicycles in the technical journal clasped in his small hands. Soon, Neddy would be passionately interested in thirty-nine (as he progressed to the thirty-ninth illustrated page). Twenty minutes ago, he had not really been sure what a motorcycle was. Now, sitting on a tree stump protruding from the floor of what once was a public school, he was becoming a Lemmington enthusiast.

I need to warn Neddy. Kyle had slipped away quietly, but he wasn’t sure he had gone unnoticed. He had been told the listeners were so sensitive they could hear thoughts. Not in the sense of reading one’s mind, but actually hearing the sound of someone thinking. Kyle grew more terrified imagining each thought that raced through his brain creaking like traitorous floorboard. He wondered for a moment if he should run home and get help. He already felt like a coward. He had sat in a locker for fifteen long minutes after he had first glimpsed the listeners. Please, let Ned be ok.

Neddy was focused intently on page forty-three. It was more detailed than the others, describing a controversy about one of the bikes. Ned couldn’t quite read or understand much of the small article, but he sounded out the words and slowly began to piece together a few facts:

The bike on page forty-three was a popular bike. (”Popular” was a word Neddy had heard used by his parents, he was pretty sure it meant the bike was very large). Neddy gathered that the Lemmington bike makers had sued (yelled at?) another bike maker for copying the sound their bike made. During the argument, the bike makers had together chosen a word that they felt best imitated the sound of the bike.

Kyle rushed into remnants of the school library. He had left Ned in the main hall, he knew his brother had the propensity to wander among the shelves. Sometimes there would still be a book in tact for him to take back home. Kyle stepped over a few toppled computer desks and saw Ned. Kyle froze, and then everything happened at once.

Neddy had felt a change in the air. At first he just thought it was just getting late in the day, or that a cloud was passing over- but it was too muffling. And then suddenly, they were there. The large wiry forms were right next two him. Three of them. He knew the stories about the listeners, he didn’t like them. A sob quickly formed in his throat. Then he saw Kyle step from around a corner, eyes wide.

Neddy exploded out of the hall in a rush of loose paper and shrubbery. Kyle jumped back as Ned soared over a computer monitor and ran headlong down the connecting hallway. Kyle only bristled for a moment, watching the three listeners writhe and cock their spindly heads, before he joined Ned in the sprint.

Neddy was running as fast as he could, but it was not fast enough. Kyle quickly caught up with Neddy and scooped him up into his arms. Something ripped at his shirt, but Kyle did not stop or look back. He was going toward the water, toward safety.

Kyle burst outside through the deteriorated front door of Samuel Ellins Elementary and leaped down a row of stairs. He hit the ground hard and kept running. He could see the bridge to town, there would be police there, soldiers, who would help them.

“Kyle…” Neddy’s voice was a slight whisper. He knew they wouldn’t make it, the listeners were fast and getting closer. Their heads oddly askew, watching the two brothers with one eye. They began to reach with long spiny fingers, clasping at Kyle’ shirt. Kyle struggled fruitlessly as the air grew still and thick around them.

“POTATO POTATO POTATO POTATO!!” Ned’s voice seared through the air in the distinct piercing tenor of a petrified toddler. The listeners cringed, their fingers ripping from Kyle’s back to their own ears. One listener tumbled to the ground, tripping from the shock while running.

“POTATOPOTATOPOTATOPOTATOPOTATOPOTATO!!!” Ned relentlessly continued to scream the word faster and faster like an engine, until the world itself was lost within it’s own repitition. Kyle stumbled and redoubled his efforts, startled from Ned’s outburst. The air around him swirled to life and with it he could hear the deep, confident calls of the men on the bridge.

Lunch

He was thinking it. She was thinking it. Neither said a word.

“What’s on your mind, Lin?” It sounded very casual, or would have if his voice hadn’t cracked. Damn it.

“Nothing, why?” Linda studied Dilan’s face, hoping to get some clues. Robert Fensely had given her a card, but she had thrown it out. Actually, she had almost thrown it out. It didn’t matter because she would throw it out soon, maybe when she took her lunch tray up.

“It just looked like… nevermind,” Dilan didn’t want to look like he cared too much. He just needed a hint. He looked at his food, “are you working this weekend?”

“Yep,” Linda took a candid bite off her fork. She was working a Saturday morning shift at Borders Books. It was only a 4 hour shift, and she wanted to tell Dilan she’d be free later. Dilan looked up at her, she suddenly became terrified there might be something in her teeth.

“Lame,” Dilan looked at her mouth and wondered if he would ever kiss her. Her lips puckered slightly, was she thinking the same thing?

Linda lifted up her tray, looking toward the busing station. Dilan grabbed his tray up and walked with her. His arm brushed hers, was that on purpose? He didn’t seem to notice. She didn’t turn her head. Eyes fixed on the busing station.

“Well, thanks,” Thanks? Dilan had no idea why he said that. He started trying to think of something to be grateful for, to explain himself to her. He yawned, just to do something with his mouth.

Linda was holding the card. She should throw it away, she hated Fensely, she hated Valentine’s Day, she hated everything. She didn’t look up, “Robert gave me a card…”

“Oh,” Dilan understood. Say something. He dumped his tray, “Thanks again… for lunch.”

Linda covered her mouth “I’m only working in the morning, this weekend.”

Carpool

“Are you sure that’s what he said?” Norm yawned noisily, stretching his arms toward his knees. Suddenly Norm laughed, “where did he even get the idea…?”

“It doesn’t even snow here,” said Kris, adjusting his grip on the wheel, “you sound like my wife- it’s not funny.”

Norm was laughing again, now bent all the way down gripping his toes. Kris glanced over, his scowl momentarily faltering in confusion, “what are… look, this kid was serious.” He directed his focus back to the road.

“He probably meant build… ” Norm put a foot up on the dashboard and started to laugh again, “I’m sorry, Kris, but it’s a little kid, he was probably just… you know, just saying crap,” Norm pushed against the roof of the car.

“Yeah, but this is different,” Kris took a long glance at his blind spot, “it isn’t just crap, it’s a… career goal or something, a dream.” Kris gripped the wheel again, hunching his small frame a bit closer to the windshield. A few cars passed on the right, which seemed to irritate Norm.

“Ok, so what did you tell him?” Norm asked after a few silent moments.

“You should have seen the kid, Norm, he was so certain,” Kris glanced into the rear view mirror.

“Kris, someone who wants to be a snowman when they grow up isn’t gonna pussyfoot around!” Norm was grinning, “Jesus, Kris, I hope you didn’t give the poor kid a science lecture.”

The car slowed into a toll queue, they were both silent for a moment while Kris rolled down the window. He awkwardly parted with a crinkled bill and a terse greeting before starting off again.

“Your car is so effin’ small,” Norm was adjusting the seat.

Kris slowed the car as someone merged into the lane, “I told him to go for it.”