# 31/7/12 - LM - Funny Things Happen When the Sky is Burning



## Potty (Jul 31, 2012)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS*
*The August Challenge*


*A reminder of the prizes awarded to the winner of the LM.
Their entry will appear in the WF Newsletter, which is a good chance to get your work widely circulated.
Now we are also offering a Friends of WF (FoWF) subscription free for a month to the first place winner!

*
*So, do your best.*

* * * 


This time around in the LM Forum we use the prompt:
*Funny things happen when the sky is burning
*_In 650 words, write a story where the line above is either the title, or is included in the story, or is in some way the theme of the story. So there should be many ways to connect to the prompt._


The judges for this round are *Myself**, Fin, HKayG and TheFuhrer02*.
(To the judges, send your scores to Potty - and if we could aim to have them sent a week after the closing date that would be ideal.)​

*Now a recap of the rules:*
1.The word limit is 650 words not including the title. If you go over - Your story will not be counted.
2.You can no longer edit your entry after posting. There will be a 10-minute grace period, if you want to go in there and edit a typo or something, but you should approach this as if you were submitting your work to be published and paid for. When you submit, that should be your final work, the work you are happy with.
3.And of course, there can only be one entry per member.


As always, there are two ways to post your entry:

You can opt to have your entry posted in the *LM Workshop Thread *which is a special thread just for LM entries in the Writer's Workshop. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights (in case you want to someday submit the work to a magazine or whatnot). Take note: If you have elected to put your entry there in the Workshop thread *you must copy the link into the main competition thread* or else it will not be counted.

If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you could place your here entry in the *LM Challenge thread.*

Everyone is welcome to participate. Judges are welcome to participate, too, but their entries will not receive a score.

This competition will close on Wednesday the *15**th of August*. To avoid confusion the thread will close at 11:59pm (Wednesday Night) LOS ANGELES, USA time.​* * *​*
No comments, please - Only competition entries (and links to) to be posted in this thread.

Also hold off on the likes until the judging's done.* 

*Now that all's set, let the writing begin! *​


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## Terry D (Aug 1, 2012)

Rockjunkie@Twitter
(646 words)


*Rockjunkie:*  Heading to Iceland tomorrow!!! Hverfjall volcano and the midnight Sun! Woot! Follow all my thesis project tweets here on Twitter.

*Rockjunkie:*  In Iceland and loving it! 1st activity @ Hverfjall in 900 years! Reykjavik to volcano = long ride, going 2 sleep.

*Rockjunkie:*  Arrived @ Hverfjall 2AM. Still light out! Glow from crater EZ 2 see. Still 20 miles from caldera; sky looks 2B on fire. No smoke/ash—odd.

*Rockjunkie:*  @ Hverfjall for 2 days now. Mountain doesn’t look like much, low, gentle slope. Villagers call it a sleeping dragon, I can see that.

*Rockjunkie:*  24 Hour days freak me out! B-rhythms screwed, can’t sleep. People R cool, beer is good, food not. Nice bar in village, love the stories!

*Rockjunkie:*  Spent day placing monitors and taking pics. Lugged everything myself; locals won’t go near Hverfjall.  Damned superstition!

*Rockjunkie:*  Getting use 2 the smell of rotten eggs, yeuch! Eruption growing; seeing long-period quakes @ mag 3. Sky getting brighter above caldera.

*Rockjunkie:*  Village people (YMCA!) R cool.  Not 2 backward. 1 Dude (Galdur) even has a Twitter account! Still won’t come near mountain.

*Rockjunkie:*  Can you BELIEVE it? Village council wants me 2 pack-up and go! Nice about it, but seemed scared. Can’t go. Need this 4 my thesis.

*Rockjunkie:*  Midnight—deep blue sky in south; Sun teasing the horizon north. Burning glow over vent; orange fire where the dragon lives (cool story!).

*Rockjunkie:*  So much for biologists!  Books said no reptiles in Iceland. I just killed an ugly-ass snake in my tent. 3ft long. Sick-green. Nasty fangs.

*Rockjunkie:*  Totally weird! Took snake 2 bar and everyone crapped themselves. 1 Old lady threw salt at me! Quakes @ mag 3.7. Something’s moving 4 sure.

*Rockjunkie:*  Need 2 move camp.  Came back from monitor check 2 find tent tagged like an LA underpass.  Symbols everywhere. Not paint—blood.

*Rockjunkie:*  Old lady watched as I washed tent B4 move.  Kept yelling, “No no no, save you!” Crazy bitch! Moved camp 2km E, near stream; lots of frogs.

*Rockjunkie:*  Something wrong with monitors. Gas levels FUBAR.  CO2, SO2, H2S, all normal? Sulfur smell EVERYWHERE! Quakes have leveled @ mag 3.9.

*Rockjunkie:*  Took hand monitor up flank 2 check gasses, all normal there 2? Smells like rotting meat up high. 2 more snakes @ camp. Creepy!

*Rockjunkie:*  8 Lunch @ 1AM under a smoke-free sky. Saw a flock of birds fly close 2 vent and get fried by yellow flames. Nothing like it! Need sleep.

*Rockjunkie:*  Damned frogs! Washing up in creek after bkfast and got bit! What kind of frog bites?! Hurts like hell. Squashed its ass. Hundreds more.

*Rockjunkie:*  Finally slept while the ground kept shaking. Dreamed of snakes, frogs and burning sky. Woke up 2 snakes, frogs, and burning sky. HAHA!

*Rockjunkie:*  Feel like crap. Hand swollen and infected. Nothing in medkit works. Going 2 village 2 look for doc. Now there R white worms everywhere.

*Rockjunkie:*  Village empty! Looks like they left in a hurry. Scared of Hverfjall probably. Nice 2 see houses again, felt kind of normal. Miss them.

*Rockjunkie:*  Would kill 4 a dark night! R there still stars out there? Nothing but death-stink and worms here. Saw a big worm eat a frog?! Go worm!

*Rockjunkie:*  Going 2 top of tuft ring with HD cam. Need 2 see how a volcano erupts without smoke, ash and gas. No magma either! Lots of shitty critters!

*Rockjunkie:*  Swollen arm made packing hard. Hand feels dead, smells like it 2! Gotta get help after trip 2 caldera. Enough data for 10 theses.

*Rockjunkie:*  No volcano!  Something else! Filled with red mist—it MOVED! Had an EYE! 2 BIG! Looking @ ME! Mountain filled with crawling things—MOVING THI

*Rockjunkie:*  MOVING THINGS! HUNGRY THINGS! THINGS COMING! COMING!!

*Rockjunkie:*  Nice volcano man is gone. Sorry Galdur can not save. Guardian will sleep now. Stay away, thank you.


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## The Thing (Aug 1, 2012)

Constantine's Epiphany​
Rumours of reports spread through the camp that the army of Maxentius was twice the size of our own. Understandably the men were nervous and anxious about this news. As their centurion it was down to me to quell those fears. Not an easy task. Our general was Constantine son of Constantius and was considered by some the rightful emperor and by others a despotic usurper. Even in our own ranks, and especially since the rumours of the enemies numbers began doing the rounds, this divide was widespread. Personally, I didn't care either way as long as I got my coin when we reached Rome. 

I stood on a small box before my century and stared out over their heads. Slowly each man stopped whatever tasks they were doing and turned to face me. I had their attention. Good. I opened my mouth to speak and at the moment noticed that the men were not looking at me, but behind me. I turned to see what had caught their attention and fell off my box.

The clear blue sky had turned the colour of blood. A raging ball of fire roared through the heavens with great rolling clouds turning in it's wake. Thunder boomed over us and lightening flashed before our eyes searing demonic visions into my mind. Eventually the fireball crashed into the ground with such deafening fury that for a moment I thought the earth was being split in two. I continued to sit on the ground, staring at the towering, bulbous cloud that churned above the horizon long after the fireball had landed. 

A man wearing an exquisite purple cloak stumbled towards us in a muddle of the excitement. He was followed by an old man in a cheap brown robe. It took me a moment to realise it was Constantine and his priest, Eusebius. 

I ordered the men to attention.

“Did you see that, Centurion?” Constantine asked.

Well, I couldn't have really missed it. “Yes, sir!”

“Do you know what it was?” Constantine was in my face with mad, boggling eyes. “Do you know what it means?” He grabbed a handful of my tunic and pulled me towards him.

“No, sir.”

“Tell them, Eusebius. Tell my loyal men what that sign mean,” Constantine shook the old priest by the shoulders.

“It would come better from you, you highness,” Eusebius said completely unperturbed by Constantine's excitement. “I think the soldiers would prefer to hear of this heavenly blessing from your own mouth.”

“Yes, yes, you're quite right. Tomorrow we go to battle,” Constantine stood proud with his shoulders thrown back and his chest thrust out. “Tomorrow we win an empire. In this sign,” he pointed to the expanse of smoke and dust. “In this sign, you will conquer. Centurion, do you believe in the teachings of Christ?”

“No, sir. I follow the old gods that made Rome great.”

Constantine smiled at me. “Paint this sign,” he drew a symbol in the ground. It was an X with it's head bent round. “Every man who wears this, the sign of Christ, on his shield will be protected by our lord god in heaven. And then you will believe, Centurion. How can you not?”

The next morning we marched into battle with our painted shields. As we approached the Tiber we could see the perplexed faces of our fellow Romans and our enemies. Weather we really had the power of God behind us, or we simply confused our enemy, Constantine was right: we did win the battle and I did believe.


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## helium (Aug 1, 2012)

http://www.writingforums.com/writer...-sky-burning-workshop-thread.html#post1545251


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## garza (Aug 1, 2012)

*Look up - the sky is burning*

The first round hit the school. The intended target had been the Police Station. At the time both sides tried to avoid killing children. That would change.

The mortar was hidden in an abandoned house two hundred yards outside the village. There was no roof, which was one reason the house had been chosen. It was perfect for the mortar. The walls and thick bush muffled the sound so very few people noticed when the first round was fired. Everyone noticed when it landed.

A woman screamed. 'Our children'.

The villagers ran toward the school as the students who were able came out. The rush to the school ended when the second round hit the panades shop between the school and the Police Station. 

It was a modern shop equipped with a large butane tank and gas stove to replace the traditional fire hearth. The tank had been filled recently and the fireball that erupted engulfed the shop, the remains of the school, and part of the Police Station. Behind the school were about 30 thatch-roofed houses built close together. The fire jumped from house to house as burning cinders were swept along by the expanding bubble of over-heated air. Burning thatch by the handful drifted across the village and landed on thatch roofs on the other side of the square behind the church. Soon both sides of the village burned and heat-driven smoke and ashes filled the sky, accented here and there by bits of flame and glowing cinders.

The third round hit the intended target, blowing out the walls in the upper storey of the Police Station. A rebel group had intended to use the mortar to disable the local police formation, then attack the village. They had a list of people suspected of being government informers. The people on that list were to be found and shot once the village was secure. Had the first two rounds landed as intended, all the police would have been killed or badly injured. Because the first two rounds missed, the police were out of the building when it was hit by the third round. The rebel attackers saw where their first rounds landed and withdrew.

A unit of the Guardia Nacional arrived in the village the next day. Soldiers from the unit searched the bush around the village and found where the mortar had been. The commander and an aide examined the ruins of the school and Police Station. Of the panades shop all that remained was a blackened patch of dirt and twisted bits of metal. The Guardia Nacional officers talked with witnesses and wrote a report.

Eleven children  and three teachers died when the first round hit. Two children died of their injuries shortly afterward and a fourth teacher died during the night. More than 30 children suffered injuries serious enough to need attention. Most of the other 80 children in the school escaped with minor cuts and burns. Four infants and an elderly woman burned to death in their thatch-roofed homes. Also killed was the owner of the panades shop.

In the course of his investigation the commander learned that three families in the village had kept their children home from school that day. He concluded that the adult members of those families were rebel sympathisers and had them shot. 

One of the village elders spoke to the commander. 'You should have seen it, Comandante. For almost an hour yesterday the sky was burning.'

The commander laughed. 'The sky does not burn, old man.'

'It did yesterday', said the old man. 'It was burning with the blood of our children.'

'You see what animals the rebels can be', said the commander.

'Are you so innocent? said the old man.

'In this war', said the commander, 'no one is innocent'.

'Only the children', said the old man.

'Maybe the children', said the commander. 'We'll see.'


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## Arcopitcairn (Aug 1, 2012)

Funny Things Happen When the Sky is Burning

  Ben stood in his apartment and he looked out the window. The city was burning, people exploding from the skyscraper pyres in one last flaming retreat from the end of their homes, their worlds, falling in piles, bubbling flesh melting in the streets. The trumpet sounded again all over the world, the air was getting thin, and Janie was sitting on the couch, crying.


  Everything was over, and all the things he never believed were true. It was judgment day, and he wondered idly if now that the truth was evident, if his final realization would be enough to get him into Heaven after a lifetime of disbelief. He figured that it would not be enough. 


  The Mona Lisa was probably on fire, and Ben considered all the pretty and clever things man had made, all for nothing. He wondered if God was burning his own churches.


  He stepped away from the window and he looked at Janie as she quietly sobbed. The apocalypse had most definitely interrupted their game of monopoly. He imagined the little car and the thimble as tiny puddles of molten metal when the wall of fire finally reached the apartment. There were minutes to live, and he noticed how beautiful she looked when she was crying. There was something about her face in sorrow that made her even more appealing than normal. Her jet black ponytail shone in the approaching firelight and it would soon be ash. How he loved her, even though she had never loved him. Just friends, yeah?


  “We could do it.” She blurted, her cheek wet with tears, “before the end. We could do that.” And she started taking off her clothes.


  He watched her until she was naked, and she sat on the couch expectantly. He’d always wondered what her breasts looked like, the rest of her, naked. He’d dreamed about it. He longed to make love to her for years, and now, here at the end, he finally had his chance.


  “You know,” he said, “I always felt like you had one up on me, you know? Knowing as you did how I felt about you, but taking a pass.”


  “We have to hurry.”


  “No.”


  “What do you mean, no?” she asked indignantly, and she pulled her shirt across her breasts, covering them.


  “I always wished for that upper hand, all the years we’ve been friends, all the years I loved you, but I never had the chance. It took the end of the world, but I win.” He smiled at her, and all the humiliation of still being the loser friend of the girl who rejected him was gone.


  “What the hell are you talking about,” she asked, gasping in the thin, burning air.


  “I don’t have to have sex with you, Janie,” he said, starting to feel faint, “because you’ve just given me the greatest gift you could ever possibly give me. Way better than your body. You gave me the opportunity to reject you, like you rejected me. And now you’ll never be able to offer yourself up to anyone ever again.”


  She stared at him as she slumped over on the couch, and she began to lose consciousness. Ben fell to his knees, and to the floor, and he used his final breaths to laugh at her, and that was the last thing she heard before she passed out.


  Before he died, before the flames forced their way into his apartment and ate him and Janie, Ben realized in his last foggy thoughts, beyond pain, beyond life, that he deserved whatever was coming to him, and he knew he would love her forever. He would never be able to take it back. He smiled as he died, and he figured he’d probably see her again, actually. He could apologize to her when he saw her in Hell.


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## Kyle R (Aug 3, 2012)

*Grey Tail, Orange Sky *
(650 words)​

Abigail only had twelve minutes of oxygen left. She tapped the gauge to make sure it was correct. Make that eleven minutes. She frowned and dragged herself a little further. Her leg swept pink brush strokes in the snow.

The sun was slipping fast down the red wall of the sky. Soon it would be dark. The wolves would be out. Earlier they had tasted her. She checked her calf--still bleeding. She knew once the light fell away they'd be fast on her trail. Her breath kept rebounding against the bowl-like collar of her jacket, stinging her eyes. But she'd learned the hard way that rubbing with her ice-grit gloves was worse. She squinted at the dial. 

Ten minutes. 

She whimpered, then scolded herself. "You can do it," she muttered. "Suck it up."

In the distance she heard a ghost of a howl, an alien voice that sailed over the powder-glinted dunes. It moved like it had wings, thrusting against the wind. _That voice could go anywhere it wants,_ Abigail thought. The idea elated her, a giddiness that only a scientist who had spent two seasons studying _Canis lupus arctos_--the arctic wolf--could have. More voices joined in. Abigail counted a dozen. "Hunting vocalizations," she mumbled, smiling at the recognition. One voice sounded young. Could this really be Grey Tail's first hunt? Over the past six months, Abigail had grown attached to the young female with the wagging abnormality. Pangs of joy and remorse plucked at her sternum: joy that Grey Tail was approaching her first kill; remorse that the kill would be human. Abigail imagined those canines puncturing her skin. But it wasn't bites that scared her--it was shaking. That violent, wild thrashing to rip flesh from bone. _Oh, God,_ she thought. _The pain._
　
"No," she growled, _the snowmobile is nearby. You can make it._ 

The howls sank away. Just whistling air. Abigail knew: the pack was on the move. 

She clawed at a crusty ledge of ice; pulled with everything she had. The drift crumbled away, causing her to lurch and smack herself in the face. "Damn it!" she yelled. "Damn it all!" Her voice, thin and hollow, was swallowed up in a sea of white. She exhaled and watched her breath drift away. 

The dial showed six minutes.

Abigail's body ached--really ached. A metallic tinge, like her bones had turned to lead. Cold seemed to radiate from her core. She felt a flush of warmth suddenly boil over. Her clothes were on fire! _No_, she thought, with a second, smaller voice. _Blood rushing to skin. Freezing to death. Where,_ she gasped, _where is damn? Where the snow. _
_
Is mobile?_

Numbers swam before her eyes. Drugged fish in a stream. 300. 

259. 

258. 

_No 299? Calculator broken. Snow. Where?_ 

Her brain felt thick.

_The gun. Yes. _
_
So tired._
_
Do gun._

Abigail fumbled with her belt, groping clumsily until she was gripping the pistol. She pointed awkwardly, squeezed the trigger. An orange burst rocketed to the sky, spraying sparks and embers like warm rain. The sound was whipped cream from a can. Abigail tasted pumpkin and smelled ham. She slumped back, licked her lips, and sighed.

Beneath the glow of the sky, Abigail saw silhouettes on the ridge. Her vision doubled; it looked like more than twenty. "Huntern... patting," she mumbled.

130. 

Abigail reached down, knocked the mask from her partner's face. The oxygen tube hissed. Slowly, the man wrestled his eyes open. He blinked heavily at Abigail, then contorted his face. _Why?_

"Better way, this," Abigail stammered.

The man coughed, weakly, then gasped, even weaker. His body trembled in the fabric cocoon sled. His throat bobbed, sucking air. All the while he stared at Abigail with that silent, agonized pleading. _Why? Why?_

But Abigail was watching Grey Tail bound down the snowdrift, leading the pack. The youngest alpha female she had ever seen. W_ow._ She smiled. _Here they come._

* * *​


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## Primrose (Aug 4, 2012)

*Maybe the Sky Really is Falling*


Funny things happen when the sky is burning.

There is the general pandemonium of the thing, first of all. And then the light. It would be positively beautiful if not for…

But me? I stand on the street corner. I watch it eat away at the clouds, I watch it lick the stars. That’s the thing about fire. It’s a giant mouth. With jagged and burning teeth. Everyone else runs. They tumble from buildings, trampling each other without another thought. 

Yes, Mrs. Harris, you’ve run over a child. I watch the disaster unfold, and the people and I can see all of their faces. Panicked. All of their earthly possessions are gone. Mr. Perkins couldn’t carry out all of his cats…

One of them is at my feet now.

Everyone who hasn’t left is on the opposite side of the street all lined up to make sure they’re alright. That’s right, line up for inspection, soldiers. Is anyone hurt? No. Very good then.

Sadistically, I pause to wonder if anyone who lives in my building is on vacation. What a surprise they’ll have to return to. Will the police deliver all the horrible details? Arson? It was absolutely arson. Can you think of anyone who may have wanted to do this? They’ll say no. And then they’ll retire to a nice hotel (or a dingy one, until they find more permanent lodgings) and after ruminating for hours, they’ll know exactly who did it. That’s how the mind works.

Time moves so much faster than I thought it would here. Brings new meaning to “life is short.” But it’s not, really. It’s only short when there’s a deadline… Personally, I feel as if I’ve lived forever. And I’m “only” nineteen.

Everyone is safe. It’s alright now, there’s nothing to fear. The firemen have showed up in their yellow suits, the blaze is under control. All that’s left is the smoke. The panic subsides like a stomachache after vomiting. I sit. A grey and white tabby slinks around my ankles. Hello Winnie. I scratch her chin, feeling her purring through her spine. Yes, Winnie. Safe and sound. Safe and sound.

Mr. Perkins is begging them to find her… Find my Winnie. Where is she? What about the girl from 14G, Mr. Perkins? Did you see her come out? No. You didn’t see her. Nobody did. And no one is looking. That’s fine. No one ever looked before. Why would they look now? But wait—

There. They’ve found me. Will they find the gasoline on my hands? The sulfuric residue from my fingertips? Time will tell. But it won’t matter. Not really.

Life is not short. It is long and agonizingly painful. It moves slowly at a crawling pace until it has reason to run. You have to give it reason to run. Because it’s like a flood.

If you don’t move, you are surely doomed to drown.


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## Jon M (Aug 5, 2012)

DRUNK AND CRAZY​


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## Industrial (Aug 5, 2012)

*Funny Things Happen When the Sky is Burning*

*Imagine a piece of paper. It has two points on it. Point A can be found at the top and Point B at the bottom. What’s the shortest distance from Point A to Point B? Well the sciences will tell you that the shortest distance between any two points is a straight line. But what if I told you that the paper is actually folded in half? What if I told you that Point A and Point B are already touching each other? Then there is no distance.*

*We as human beings only perceive there to be distance because we are stuck within the paper. Think of the paper. It is composed of an infinite amount of microscopic particles that make up its layers. These layers come together to form the paper. From our small point within one of the many layers of the paper it seems impossible to travel to the other end. It's just too big.*

*But are we not already part of the paper? It's time for us as a society to re-access our goals. We need not look at our spot in the paper and try to change it but realize that without us there would be no paper. We are already at the spot we desire to reach and more importantly as one, we are the paper.*

*Everything is connected as one. Humankind is one with god just as the cells and microscopic organisms within our body are a part of us. The microscopic distance between electrons, neutrons, and protons is comparable to the distance between galaxies. There are many layers of the universe. It is as infinitely small as it is big. And if there is one link missing in a chain then it isn’t a chain.*

*What is time but a measurement of distance between events? What is distance but a human creation born from our disposition within the paper? Think about a race track. Is it really important who wins the race? Eventually everyone is going to cross the finish line. So why then do we as human beings put so much importance in what happens during the course of a race?*

*What really separates us from animals? Science will tell us that our superior intelligence separates us from animals. But according to their very practices, Darwin’s Survival of the fittest for instance, what is the human mind but another trait that has been selectively bred over time? If we really want to stand apart from the countless other animals that have inhabited this earth only to become extinct, the choice is clear. It’s to emphasize our hearts not our intellect.*

*No longer can we use our intellects to selfishly ensure our own survival at the expense of others less fortunate than us. We need equal standards of living for everyone across the globe. Even if that means the top of the social caste will have to temporarily slow down to let others catch up. The alternative is to end up like the dinosaurs leaving nothing behind but our giant remains.*

*Now let’s go back to our piece of paper. Imagine the borders of all the nations in the world are no more than the layers that make up this metaphorical piece of paper. These layers are what trap us. They prevent us from moving around. They block our view so that we can’t see. They push us against each other. We must burn these borders which threaten to disrupt the interdependence of humanity and the very fabric of existence. Perhaps that is what god has been waiting for, a sign. For someone trapped within one of these infinite levels of existence to set the spark that burns the paper forever freeing everyone and everything and setting the sky on fire!*


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## Evil Jennius (Aug 6, 2012)

*No Good Deed Goes Unpunished*
648 words


He had thought it merciful – how they'd listened to his pleadings and thrown him the canteen before speeding off.  Now he wasn't so sure.  What had it done but stretch out his misery and offer him hope?

The river had given him hope too.  He'd seen the banks, cutting through the desert, and had hurried towards it – thinking himself saved.  On seeing the dried flakes of mud, curling at the edges, his knees buckled.  There was no jackpot – only a consolation prize.  He had to be content with curling himself into the precious shade cast by a rock jutting out of the bank.

He had lain there with nothing to do but think.  He thought he'd been 'saving the world' – or at least the Company.  In hindsight, that meant _nothing.  _What mattered now was getting to kiss Emmie again.  His eyes followed the cracks in the mud as his fingers traced the lines in his crusted lips.  

"She wouldn't want to kiss me now."

He hissed as he turned; every time, some raw bit of him was scraped by the sand, or the rough edges of his shelter.  There was no position where all of him could be out of the sun. He was a slab of meat on a rotisserie; always some bit of him roasted.

---​ 

He had walked the first day across the flat, barren landscape, following the tyre tracks.  That was after panic had crippled him.  They would never come back!  No one else knew where he was!  What did an accountant know of survival?

"Stop!" He forced himself to breathe deeply. "You have a brain – use it!"  

He thought to cover his head – he had seen it in a film.  He stripped off his shirt and tied the sleeves around his head, leaving the body flapping over his neck and shoulders. His back and arms now glowed a deep red.  

His brogues filled with sand, which scoured his feet.  He tired so quickly.  Though he barely wetted his lips the canteen grew dangerously light. The wind came and whipped the dust into his eyes and mouth – and swept away his salvation.  The tyre tracks were gone. He fell to his knees. Hot tears washed the grit from his eyes, and forged itchy trails through the dust on his cheeks.  He was lost.

Later the sun had dipped into the horizon, taking the heat with it, and threw a glorious blaze of fire across the sky. If only it could have remained dusk. The sliver of moon gave no light. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he shivered. He was the only being in hundreds of miles of inky-blackness – small and exposed – all alone apart from the _things_ he heard scuttling in the sand, but never saw. He did not sleep.  


---​ 

He couldn't turn any more; he could barely move his head. His breath came in short pants. He stared at the grains of sand as the side of his face rested on the ground – trying to fix his eye on a single particle – but the more he tried to focus, the more the grains danced about.

Earlier, he'd seen his father, standing in the riverbed, shouting at him – begging him not to get involved.  Then Emmie had stroked his head, and hummed soothingly, just like when he was feverish last year. When she was gone, in quiet horror he watched the Sicilian come – smiling broadly, showing the gap between his front teeth, just as he had when ordering his henchmen to throw him into the back of the van.  Bile rose in his throat.

In the sky above, large soft shadows circled like the blades of a ceiling fan; intermittently shielding  his face from the sun.

"Emmie," he mouthed, trying to call her back, but no sound came out.


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## Nemesis (Aug 7, 2012)

*Deified - 650 Words*​The sky was burning. Flames licked the stars; scorched the heavens. Their screams were everywhere. They screamed as they flung themselves out of windows, as they ran from the building, as they burned and died. It was a beautiful scene. 
One of his victims ran towards him, arms raised over her head, shrieking loudly. He stepped aside as she passed him and fell to the ground. A crowd of people quickly surrounded her. They yelled and cried and tried to put out the flames. They didn’t understand. Those were not screams of anguish, they were screams of happiness. Of pure, unrelenting joy! He had freed that girl from her mortal shell. He felt her soul, and all of the other souls, pull free from their bodies to rise into the sky. He heard them cheering for him as they ascended. He heard them sing his praises.

_“Well done_,” boomed a voice above all others, “_You have completed your earthly task and now, now you will be a god.” _Oh yes! He knew it, had always known it since the day that the whispers first began and guided his hand. He had a higher calling: to liberate these people from a life of pain and sadness so they could, at last, be at peace. All around him they whispered. _Thank you, thank you for freeing us!_ He closed his eyes and bathed in their adoration. “_They will come for you now, do not fear.” _The voice crooned_, “You must first be purified_.” 

There! The white chariots arrived, their lights flashing blue and red as guardians emerged from within. He approached them with his hands out in offering. Others surrounded him grabbing and pointing. 

“It was him!” they cried.

The guardians took him from them, shackled his wrists with ceremonial bracelets made of silver and read him the sacred Rights of Miranda. He entered their chariot willingly. He was brought to a place of cleansing. Stripped naked and washed clean, checked for impurities, and given ceremonial garb to clothe himself. A few days passed before he was brought before the high court. Many came to watch his trial of conviction. He stared at the high priest in long black robes before him and gave the answers they needed. When judgment was declared at last, he wept with relief; he had passed.

For many years after he resided in a massive temple of stone and iron with fellow gods to-be. Not all were as ready as he. Many came to him seeking release from their fleshy prison, brandishing fists and crude weapons. It did not offend him; deliverance could only be realized through violence and he was happy to assist.

At last the temple guardians and the high priest deemed him ready. He partook of a small, solitary feast and donned fresh garments. Then he told them he was ready and, as they lead him down the aisle, there was much celebration and cheering among the other aspiring deities.

They sat him in a throne of wood and adorned his head with a metal crown. All were silent and solemn: it was not every day one witnessed a god being born. He closed his eyes and smiled. Electricity passed through his body, the world turned white, then black. He opened his eyes. Above him hung a sky of fire; charred earth beneath his feet. Surrounding him was every house and building he had sacrificed to achieve his exalted state, and they blazed still. From out of the ashes and flames crawled his burnt offerings, those he had _freed_. They came to him, wailing, raking him with their nails and tearing at his flesh with their teeth. They were so hungry.

The sky was burning. Every day beneath it, he nourished his victims with his flesh until they were whole, and every night, he burned them again. Funny thing it was, being a god.


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## Mr mitchell (Aug 10, 2012)

*Something burning 
*As I walked up down the coastline, I scooped my head up to the sky and saw something burning. What was that? I ran down the stone ground as fast as I could, but the fire rattled the ground. The tree line shook and a fear streamed across my face.

Everyone was running. Over the arching hills, I saw a young boy but he wasn’t very tall. Maybe was five-foot-four. I raced to reach him and grabbed him. I tinted his head close to my chest – blonde locks; a pointy nose and red rose skin. 

“Where your mother,” I asked.

“Don’t know,” he said. I looked everywhere for his mother, glanced to my left and to my right, but saw nothing or no one. The cranked fire burning was getting worse – my arms and legs worked and worked to get the boy to safety.
Tears was welling up in his eyes, however, his face lit up as sounds of a voice – it was his mother I guess. I gave the boy to his mother and walked away. 

The old fashion shops was aside of me; sweets shops, clothes shops and anything you could think of, Isle of Wright had it. I moved here maybe 2 months ago; my old life I had in Swindon been distorting made me life in fear. But now, I had thought I was going to have a good life here, but now it was bad. The sky was burning. 

Now, I felt hurt but I looked at the little home that living in now. A wonderful home.


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## Bilston Blue (Aug 13, 2012)

The Last Words of Old Joe Smoke


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## Gargh (Aug 13, 2012)

_************************************************** ***********WARNING - A SMATTERING OF MILD PROFANITY!!! ************************************************_

http://www.writingforums.com/writers-workshop/131687-01-08-2012-lm-funny-things-happen-when-sky-burning-workshop-thread.html#post1548759


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## rubisco (Aug 14, 2012)

Divine Censorship (mild language)
by Rubisco
650 words


Howard Reynolds stood in front of the bathroom mirror of Chuckles Comedy Club, drenched in sweat.  

"Come on Howard, you can do this you piece of crap, just like you practiced!" he said.  He had never done his bit in front of so many people.  Tonight was a full house at Chuckles because Paul Burns was headlining.  

Howard slapped his face a little, jumped up and down, anything to get the adrenaline going.  He could hear the laughs of the audience behind the closed door.  The opening act was going well.  He was a newcomer, so he was going second, after the tried-and-true comedian warmed up the audience.

Paul had a strong following.  A following that Howard wanted to impress but was afraid he didn't know how.  Paul had become famous for his witty, hilarious, but at the same time, "family-friendly" observations on life.  His popularity spread like wildfire among the Christian crowd, who had finally found a comedian they could listen to without censoring.  

Howard, on the other hand, was an artist who colored up his diction like a dung beetle who sneezed a lot while eating.  He belittled audience members for laughs,  pulled groans out of them while describing bodily functions in explicit detail, and even had several jokes that directly made fun of "the big guy upstairs" and the poor idiots who believed in Him.             

"Do you have any advice for me?" he had asked Paul before the show, hoping he could get an "in" with the audience.  Paul took a moment and looked at him in the eye.

"You're Howard, right?  Yeah, I've heard your bit.  You're gonna have to clean up your act for these people.  These are people who want to go to heaven when they die, and they don't need your potty mouth putting stumbling blocks in their way.  Do you know where you're going when you die?"

"Pittsburgh, I guess," Howard had said with a laugh, "I hear it's close enough to hell."  

Paul didn't smile in return. "Here's a tip, try to get into these people's mindset, then you know what will be funny for them.  These people have a hope that carries them through all the trials in life, so don't look down in the trash to see what's messed up there, look up and find the humor that God has already created."  

Howard could tell he wasn't going to get any jokes out of Paul.  "I get it, I get it, I need to clean up my act.  You and my mother need to have lunch sometime."  He had then grumbled off to the bathroom, cursing his agent for booking him into this situation.  

His time to go on the stage had come.  He probably had enough material to have a somewhat-clean show, but did he want to put forth the effort to sift and reorganize his material last minute?  

Howard opened the bathroom door and started to walk up the steps to the stage.  He sure as hell, no pun intended, wasn't going to change.  These people wanted funny, and he was going to make them laugh.  Now whether the laughter would be out of humor or out of feeling awkward, he didn't give a shit.

_Well, here goes_, thought Howard.  He was about to start off on his tirade about how his ex was such a bitch, when a loud trumpet sound filled the air, the ground shook, and everyone in his audience except for five people disappeared into thin air.  The sky outside was blood red, and meteors were smashing into buildings.  

Howard nervously skipped one beat.  "So how are we all feeling tonight?  I'm sure if we all survive the tribulation, we're all going to look upon this 'missing the rapture' business and laugh."  He chuckled, but he was the only one. 

Tough crowd.


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## Jeko (Aug 15, 2012)

*Sam*

​(mild language!)​ 
   Me and Sam go way back. We met at the Odeon – I was going to see Ice Age 3, and he was buying tickets for a _horror _film. An 18-rated _horror _film. He was only twelve, and I was only twelve. So when he was suddenly buying two tickets, I didn't know what to do. The next thing I knew, I was watching zombies getting impaled on six-foot stakes.

 It was awesome!

 I knew from that day that Sam was special. We had a connection. Sam was always in control, always with another trick up his sleeve, but he always did it with me.  

 Today, I'm wiling away the time leaning on Ol' Rusty outside Sam's house. It's a lamppost right next to his gate, but it isn't actually rusty (it used to be, but then the council replaced it. We couldn't be arsed to come up with a new name). Usually, Sam comes out at five. It's five-thirty now and I need to pee. I knock on his door.

 When he opens it, he's not wearing his Epic Hat (named for obvious reasons. I mean, it's got Deadmau5 on it!). He doesn't look like he's ready to leave. 'I need to pee,' I say, and then, 'Why aren't you coming out?'

 'I'm thinking of staying in for the night,' he mutters.

 'The _night_? But what about Zombie Fridays?' It's a tradition we made, to see a zombie flick every third Friday of the month. There's always one on at the Odeon, and Max always pays. Oh, and he always gets us in without fake IDs or anything. We're both seventeen now. One more year 'til our mums let us be real boys.

 'Well, I could,' he says. 'You still need to pee?'

 'Not anymore.'

 'Ew.'

 'No, no, I'm holding it in.'

 'Sure you are.'

 He grabs his Epic Hat (did it mention it's black?) and we amble down the street to our gore-strewn destiny with Zombies VS The Pottinator 3000.

 Sam seems tense. I ask him, 'What's wrong, Sam? You seem tense.'

 He looks up. 'The sky is burning.'

 'It's just a sunset.'

 'Funny things happen when the sky is burning,' he says. 'It's a bad omen.'

 When we reach the Odeon, it looks deserted. An old newspaper flies by the entrance and, deep inside the foyer, there is no-one behind the ticket counters. There aren't any chocolate M&Ms either.

 'This is weird,' I mumble.

 'I know.' We walk past an electronic Stack 'Em game as we enter. So many of my coins are in that damn machine.

 'I think we should go,' Sam says. I hear discarded popcorn crunch under his trainers. A bag lays prone on the foyer carpet along with some £20 worth of pick n mix (around 50g, by Candy King's prices).

 Suddenly, the roof explodes in a shower of scaffolding and faulty light fixtures. _Boom! Boom! _The counters explode in a flurry of popcorn and Maynard's Wine Gums. A viscous cloud of smoke forms and hovers over a pool of flowing Coca Cola. When it finally begins to clear... a giant robot emerges, tall as two men! It has a hundred machine guns on each arm a rocket launchers for teeth! It sprays the automatic doors behind us with bullets and their glass panes shatter and they finally start working again.

 'I am Gunlord!' the robot booms. Its mouth lights up like a furnace as it speaks.

 'Oh,' Sam starts. 'Bollocks.'

 Gunlord plods towards us. 'Prepare to be annihilated, Super Samuel!'

 'Sam?' I bleat. Its guns start reloading themselves. I freeze. 'Sam, what's he talking about?'

 A dozen guns train on me. Now I definitely don't need to pee.

 'Did I ever tell you I was a superhero, Max?' Sam says.

 'No.'  

 'I probably should have told you that.' He launches himself at Gunlord and kicks it in the robotic groin.


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## bazz cargo (Aug 15, 2012)

Allegiance
 by
 Bazz Cargo.
 590 words.


 'Dream big,' her father had told her. Big, ha!   


 * * *  


 The old monster of a man stands in a starlit geodesic dome. Beside him are three foolish men:  Fred, the first Emperor of The American Empire. The Right Honourable Kingly Amiss, Lord of all Europe. And Ned Weasel, chairman of The World Wide GreenEco charity.  


 He  feels their nervousness. Time for his speech. “Gentlemen. This is our finest hour...” The night sky changes colour, derailing him. From beyond the horizon a great wave of fire rolls towards them. All he can see is a mighty tsunami of money.


 “My God,” whispers Fred.


 Unnoticed, the door behind them slides to one side. A  woman in a black, figure hugging  outfit enters the dome. She takes off the balaclava revealing herself to be a twenty something. She shakes out her long blonde hair as she walks across the concrete floor and  stands behind  The Monster.  


 He feels the gun-barrel poked into his back.


 “Hello father,” she says.


 “Hello Verity.” He turns to face her. “Where have you been?”


 “Digging.”


 “You nearly missed the show,” he says, nodding towards the burning sky.


 Verity takes a brief glance, then puts her gun away. “Your friends don't know, do they?”


 “No.”


 “Congratulations father, you really have excelled yourself.”


 The three men stare.


 Kingly clears his throat. “What is going on?”


 “This... businessman has sacrificed everything to Mammon.” Verity waves an arm towards the inferno. “Quite literally, everything.”


 Kingly looks hard at Verity's father. “What have you done?”


 He is silent.


 The young woman smiles. “All those promises he made to you. The opportunity to save the world by changing it for the better. Everyone living in their own little habitats. Separated and unable to fight amongst themselves. Taxing the air they breathe. Controlling every aspect of their lives. Rescuing parts of the world that are about to be poisoned. Such a clever plan. Such a lie!”


 “Verity.”


 “No father. Not since us four children discovered we are cloned from you have we had any respect for you.” She waves at the three men. “There are things he hid from you. Most of the environmental habitats are substandard. A few will fail immediately, a lot will go in a few weeks. The rest will need constant maintenance. He has dodged every building regulation. There is shoddy workmanship, poor materials and a few cases of deliberate sabotage.”


 All eyes are on her father. He gives a wry smile and a slight shrug.


 “Two hundred years ago, when the world faced financial ruin, businessmen like you did their best to bankrupt countries. They had no care for the lives of people, just a rapaciousness for money. They killed more than Hitler and Stalin and Pol Pot put together. Now you make them look like minnows.” She holds up a hand. “No, don't kill him.”


 The three men stop.


 “He has moved his home office to Tycho City, that way he dodges any taxes. He was going to sit there and think of more revenue streams. Pushing everyone deeper into debt. Slavers with whips are more honest. The gangster with a gun at your head who tells you it is not personal he is just doing business is just the palest shadow of him.”


 “He has to die,” says Ned.


 “No, he has to live,” says Verity. “Only he can fix what he has broken.”


 In the silence  fire swirls over the dome, its light creating a pit from hell.


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