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  1. Lilly James Haro

    Lilly James Haro The Grey Warden

    Apr 26, 2014
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    Kirkwall, Free Marches, Thedas

    Past Contest Flash Fiction Contest #27 - 'Valkyrie'

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Flash Fiction Contest Archives' started by Lilly James Haro, Nov 9, 2015.

    The theme for Flash Fiction Contest #27 is "Valkyrie” which was chosen by previous winner @edamame . Remember the word limit is 150-450 words and all entries must be posted anonymously in this thread by 6:00 pm EST November 29th. Make sure to include the number of words and any warnings. You can also make your entry private simply by clicking more functions before posting, and click the box that makes the post viewable by "Members Only."
  2. uncephalized

    uncephalized Active Member

    Mar 11, 2015
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    Val Kyrie [445]

    There was no warning. I was walking, hurrying home from a late night at the station, and then I was on the ground. I didn't realize I'd been jumped until their boots started pummeling my sides. Then all I could do was curl into a ball and try not to die, face grinding into the frozen pavement.

    I couldn't tell you how long they had me. Later, in the mirror, I counted seventeen separate bruises. How long does it take two men to kick another man seventeen times? Felt like an hour.

    She flashed out of an alley shouting some nonsense like 'ho-joto-ho!' at the top of her voice. She had a big voice; not deep, but it boomed off the brick factory walls and filled the whole street. They looked up, and stopped kicking. My ears rang and my eyes wouldn't focus, but I heard one of them say something. The other one started to laugh before she was on them, blurring past my head like an avalanche of screaming wolverines.

    "What the f—" a muffled thump, a man's pained grunt.

    The click of a blade springing open. "Girl, you picked the wrong—agh!" A sharp crack, then another. Shuffling, scrambling. Feet slipping on gravel.

    I rolled onto my back and gulped in a huge breath. My eyes were working again, well enough to make out two limping shapes in biker jackets, beating feet for a side alley across the street.

    My head spun. I tried to sit up, toppled over, puked on the ground. I breathed, and coughed, and the pain in my ribs nearly put me under. Finally the world stopped lurching and I saw her.

    She walked toward me, polishing dirt off the blade of a folding knife with the cuff of her sleeve. She hefted it, flipped it from one hand to the other, then smiled and tucked it inside her coat. "Good knife," she said. "Never can have too many."

    She bent over me, grinning a wide white grin, long blond braid hanging from her shoulder. She offered a hand, and I took it and staggered to my feet. "Thank you. Who are you? I... thank you."

    "It wasn't your day to die." She leaned on a heavy carved stick as high as her shoulder. Otherwise she looked ordinary—just an ordinary, stunning beauty of war in black boots and dark jeans and a long black coat. I bent over, still catching my breath. When I looked up she was gone.

    I'd meet her again, many times. The world would learn her face, and her story. But that was the first time I ever saw Val Kyrie.
  3. Blighters

    Blighters Member

    Apr 3, 2015
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    A Fate Worse Than Death (447 words)

    Taavi did not enjoy dying. It was unbelievably painful. Then again, a spear rooted in his throat was never going to just tickle.

    Fucking Vølsung scum.

    Then came the waiting. Gods above, the waiting! So much worse than dying.

    Slow seconds wore through Taavi, like acid eating dripping through rice paper. Time consumed him, leaving his body somehow intact but eroding away his thoughts with grim determination. At first he screamed. Then begged. Soon big angry tears streamed down his cheeks as his final companion, his own sanity, started to desert him as well.

    Finally, once the tears had dried, he forgot how to move entirely, his body reduced to mere seats for his erratically roving eyes.

    Seconds grew into days. Days bled into months, months decayed into years.

    Until without warning the monotony of nothingness ended. Shattered by noise. Devastated by sound.

    His eyes, clouded with the seeds of insanity, struggled to focus, and when they did he didn’t believe them. Two women, more beautiful then Aphrodite herself, were making their way towards him. They were both completely naked, every inch of flawless skin decadently exposed The only blemish blue writing, swimming up their arms from their hands like swarm of insects.

    One of them dragged a laden cart behind her in a single hand, one tired wooden wheel squeaking with each laden revolution.

    They stopped by Taavi, looking down at him with mild disappointment.

    “I’m not impressed”, said one disinterestedly, an eyebrow cocked.

    “No...”, mused the other, cocking her head sideways in careful consideration. Perfect blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders.

    “Leave him for Hel?”

    Taavi’s eyes begged silently, shuttling desperately back and forth within their sockets as a smile slowly grew from the corner of one beautiful mouth.

    “I’m not so sure Kara... That hole in his throat should keep him from talking? But his tongue will still work. And when that gets tired I guess he’s still got a cock..?”

    Kara still looked hesitant, looking down at Taavi with clear distain.

    “Oh come on! If he doesn’t work we’ll just give him to the others to play with!”

    Kara rolled her eyes extravagantly. “Fine!”, she conceded with a deep breath. “But don’t get attached again Mist! Just remember how you felt when Zeus broke the last one!”

    Mist jumped up and down, clapping excitedly and giggling as Kara smiled reluctantly. Kara bent down and picked Taavi up in a single hand, throwing him careless into the back of the wagon. He landed with a wet slap. The sound of sweaty skin slapping against each other.

    Taavi never thought he’d look back at those years of isolation with fondness.

    Then he met the Valkyrie.
  4. Nemean

    Nemean New Member

    Apr 28, 2015
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    Blood For Passage

    She came to me that morning on wings of ivory sunlight. She smiled, longing, but worrily, and I knew the day had come. The final battle was nigh.

    Afterwards, our morning lusts fulfilled, she returned to her realm - soon to be our realm - and I alone left my tent. A morning dew had covered the jungle in which I was camped, soaking the leather armor I had left outside. I began packing up and soon realized there was no more reason to, but did anyways. Valhalla may not care one way or another for cleanliness, but I did not like leaving my belongings for others to take.

    A meal to fill my belly, a song to temper my spirit, and I was off. To Eirikki's castle home.


    The Lord of Hverlheim needed no men to tend his castle gates. Even so, one I still met.

    “Hail, brother,” spoke the swordsman. Tall man, but more bone than muscle. “I swear, each one that passes these gates is bigger than the last.”

    “Will you stand in my way, swordsman?” I asked, not unkindly.

    “Oh, and what chance do I stand against thee? I'd wager one muscle of yours overpowers all of mine in concert. No, friend, I'm here to welcome you. My Lord stands in the precipice of this tower. He awaits you.”

    “He awaits me? Does your lord not know what I come for?”

    “Oh, he does. But see, friend, one does not reach Valhalla being battle-shy. We've all heard of the war you've waged, and my Lord knows what is at stake.”

    So he did. For when I finally met him, he was clad in the most brilliant of mail, and a helmet decorated with wings of a plumage I've never seen before.

    We exchanged no words. It was his golden, ornamented spear against my simple silver one. Seconds, minutes, hours, I couldn't tell. Pain, relief, agony, groans, growls, and blood.

    I hit the ground. He stood above me. And stood. And stared. But no longer breathed. My spear had pierced his heart, its shaft propping him up as his blood dripped through the slits of his golden armor.

    I laid on my back, looking at my work, as a gaping hole in my stomach poured my bloody passage onto the cold stone floor.

    A blinding light. Heat. A silhouette before me more beautiful than she's ever seemed. My beloved, coming to take me to Valhalla...

    Someone hands me a large parchment.

    The silhouette, in a deep, gruff voice says, “Famous guy, aint'cha?”

    On the parchment reads “Crazed Office Worker Kills MacroSoft CEO With Umbrella.”

    My clothes turn to ash, and a padded muscle suit bound to me by velcro catches fire and drops to my feet.

    “Guess it's the stabbing hell for you,” says Satan.
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