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Flashfiction #30: Transformation

Discussion in 'Reader's Corner' started by Lucaniel, Mar 20, 2018.

  1. Lucaniel non serviam

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    Theme #30: Transformation


    1. Your work must be within constraints of the theme.
    2. Of course, all themes can be interpreted in any number of ways.
    3. 500 words maximum per entry, or else the entry will be disqualified.
    4. Only post one entry per theme. The highest rated entry will choose the next theme.
    5. You may not rate/review your own work.
    6. Add a rating out of ten at the end of your "review".
    7. Be constructive/honest when criticizing a piece. No mindless flaming.
    8. You do not have to enter a flashfic to rate.
    9. If you enter and do not rate & review the other entries, your flashfic is disqualified from points.

    Starts 20/03, Tuesday, ends 30/03 Friday, reviews from 31/03 to 02/04 Monday.
  2. shit shit is the ne plus ultra

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    A man pushed a knife into another man’s chest, wearing an eager smile as his goal began to materialize. The dying man’s strength was fading quickly from his arms which were pinned down by his assailant’s knees, the murderer straddling his victim.

    He chanced to take one of his hands off the knife and fumble into his backpack laying at their side. He pulled a glass jar from the sack, and he grinned wider to see the tint of confusion on the otherwise agonized expression. He pushed it firmly over the victim’s mouth with one hand and twisted the knife with the other.

    The bottom one’s eyes went wide as death’s grip clinched, and then after a brief pause they rolled slowly up into his eyelids. He exhaled long and ragged his final breath into the jar.

    The murderer waited patiently for the breath to end, keeping the jar airtight against the corpse’s skin. Several seconds after it was finished, he fished the lid out of the sack and slid it roughly and as quickly as he could over the jar, as if afraid the air inside might spill out. Once closed he lifted the jar up and admired it, a calm satisfaction overcoming him. “Finally the last ingredient.”

    He left the dead man lying there on his own living room floor, and after an hour drive to the next town, a fifteen minute walk from the parking garage to the wetlands, and then another three hour slog through the swamp, he was back at his hideout. He pushed open the door which was unable to latch, and he fished once again into his sack. Pulling out a candle and a pack of matches, he illuminated the hovel.

    A huge cauldron sat as the centerpiece of the squalid one room shack, with garbage and filth surrounding it. There was no furniture, and only a dusty rug in a spot where the garbage was pushed aside, where he slept, marked it as something besides shelter for the cauldron. The enormous pot itself was smeared with markings along its sides in weird hieroglyphics done in blood, mud, and excrement, and it was filled to the brim with a sludge that smelled even worse than the swamp outside yet dimly glowed a queer purple even in the dark.

    The man produced the jar holding the last breath of another man killed that afternoon, and he carefully held it over the cauldron. He slowly unscrewed the lid, and he held the lidless jar above the cauldron as if he imagined a priceless liquid was filling it to the brim which he dared not spill a drop. He took a deep breath and held it in, and then he dropped the jar into the pot with a deep “bloop.” The glow seemed to strengthen slightly, though a witness would wonder if that was just imagination.

    The filthy, insane murderer dipped his hands into the ice cold liquid and brought some to his lips and sipped.
  3. Lucaniel non serviam

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    The woman's body had been colonised by irridescent moss like an above-ground coral reef, with plant stems which ended in flowering buds winding around her arms, growing out of the bark of the tree into which she was slowly being absorbed. It had the effect of a visual trick, as if the picture became an old woman's features when you squinted and resolved back into a coincidental arrangement of plant life once you blinked. Her eyes were only half-closed, and when John stooped and looked up into them he could see the sclera mapped by tiny greenish veins and filmed over by the pink of drying blood-bursts.

    She seemed to be smiling.

    John looked back. He was only about a hundred metres into the zone, and this was the first truly spectacular warping. The exclusion fence followed by twenty metres of ground filled with pressure mines just under the surface started some way behind him, and any sight of the grim-faced soldiers he'd met was hidden by the massive wall.

    They had looked at him dubiously - he seemed a little too young to be choosing this, and not obviously dying in any way. It should've been a brutal indignity to have to show them medical proof that he was dying - they wouldn't let him in otherwise. But in the heightened emotion of the moment, his heart had been bursting with a mixture of emotions he could only now separate out. Everything had seemed indescribably precious and fragile, even the grim government prefabs of the camp outside the zone, because he was leaving that world forever. He had looked at each soldier, most in their early twenties with their hair cut brutally short, with the hooded and considering gaze of men who felt death lurking behind them, and they had all seemed like his children. They would be the last true flesh-and-blood unwarped humans he would ever see.

    When the commanding lieutenant had handed back his medical papers with a look of restrained pity, John had shrugged, smiled, and said "You keep 'em. I won't need 'em where I'm going, son." The lieutenant had been briefly flustered as he recognised the absurdity of his gesture, then smiled back, the look in his eyes changing to one of liking, and waved him through. "Hope you find some peace on the other side, sir."

    For his last interaction with another human, it was good enough. He had felt no anger, he recognised now, because the rule that only someone who was truly dying could go into the zone was born of concern that it should only be a last resort, and no-one should experience the warping unless they had no other way out. In their own way, those soldiers had been caring about him.

    A stream gurgled up ahead, marked out by the riot of shimmering-coloured moss and flowers. He walked to the bank, bent down, and drunk its water, then lay back. A deep calm settled over him as the change began.
  4. Avalon The Dark Lord

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    The transformation jutsu. It was the jutsu you needed to master in order to graduate from the Academy and become a fully fledged genin. It was the jutsu that you needed to master in order to become a productive member of society. And this was Naruto's third time failing the graduation exam.

    Naruto was depressed, he started to doubt himself and his goal of becoming Hokage. He then started thinking about other career options, like maybe opening up a ramen shop? He was thinking of a name for his brand new ramen shop when all of a sudden, a mysterious man by the name of Mizuki. Mizuki told Naruto that if he stole the score and learned the forbidden Shadow Clone Jutsu, then he would be able to graduate the academy. Naruto was beyond ecstatic, and he quickly stole the forbidden scroll.

    The Hokage was shocked at this treason, and sent out Iruka and other shinobi to pursue Naruto, Iruka then confronted Naruto and basically was like tiredpepe while Naruto attempted to justify him stealing the scroll....when all of the sudden, a kunai came flying out of nowhere. Luckily Naruto and Iruka managed to avoid getting killed, might be because he's the main character or something, who knows.

    The man responsible for throwing the kunai was none other than Mizuki. Naruto couldn't believe his eyes, how could Mizuki betray him like this? Mizuki then started talking that good shit, and started calling Naruto a fox. Naruto wasn't having that disrespect though, and he channeled all his chakra and successfully pulled off the shadow clone jutsu and ended up stomping Mizuki. Iruka was so impressed by this that he decided to let Naruto pass the academy and become a genin.

    "B-but what about the transformation jutsu? I don't need to know that to graduate? :thinkchuu" - Naruto asked.

    Iruka replied, "Nah fuck that fam."

  5. afgpride Retired Staff

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    Chisimdi tugged her big brother’s hand, pointing at the familiar stranger smiling at her from the candy stall.

    Deion sighed. “No, Chisi”. He tightened his grip and pulled her back on course.

    Her frown drew tears as she struggled.

    “I know you don’t want candy”, he started. “You want to talk to the candy man because you don’t talk to anyone other than me anymore”.

    She stopped struggling at that and began sobbing instead.

    “But don’t forget, Chisi. If we get caught they will separate us. Adults ask questions”.

    She looked up and glared at him, eyes watery. He had the same expressionless look on his face ever since mama left. She thought about when he would smirk after beating her in a race or frown at her for spitting out her food. That was old Deion. Now his face was as bored as a cat from the moment she woke up to the moment she went to sleep. This was new Deion. She missed mama.

    “Where’s mama?” She demanded.

    “With God.” He never hesitated with that response.

    “Where’s mama?”

    “With God.”

    She asked twice in a row this time and still got the same answer. That must’ve meant it was really true. She stopped to pluck a piece of glass off her heel. It didn’t hurt, but the blood smearing over ash scared her. Deion consoled her with a casual voice, wiping her tears and nose with a rag before using it to clean her foot.

    They made their way through the last row of huts and followed the trail through the woods. Chisimdi was coached successfully to watch her step for sharp branches, and was proud of herself to make it to the riverbank without needing to be carried. She held up her palm and counted, letting go of Deion’s hand to free up enough fingers to get to seven. She was one year older than six, so she was big now. She beamed with pride.

    “Let me do it”, she pleaded, reaching for the clay bucket Deion had been carrying on the way.

    He gave it to her and massaged his shoulder, squinting.

    “Make sure no dirt gets in.”

    She wanted to try carrying it on her head, but filling the water was enough to brag for the week. Deion balanced and heaved it to his feet, needing both hands to keep it from tipping. Chisimdi took advantage and led the way home.