# Literary Maneuvers April 2019 - "The Butterfly Effect"



## bdcharles (Apr 1, 2019)

*"The Butterfly Effect"*
_650 words, deadline 23:59 GMT, Monday 15th April 2019_​ 
*
Introduction*

This month's prompt, as voted for by a supermajority of over 56% , is  "The Butterfly Effect", for  which  you are to write a maximum of  650  words of  fiction.  Pick your  own   title, write about whatever  you  want,  in  whatever prose     style  and  interpreted as you see  fit, as  long as   it's related in  some way  to   the prompt. You decide  the best  way  in  which to dazzle  your  readers  - and the judges. :smile:

The judges this month are, so far, *Arachne*, *Megan Pearson,* *-xXx-*, and myself, *bdcharles*.   If you  wish to join this month's panel (max of 4),  please sign up     for  judging by PM or in  the coffee shop. If you want  to  judge   and  I     left you out, send me  your scores before the end of the month.    If    you're    listed here and don't wish  to judge, please let me  know at          once.

If you win, you'll get a badge  pinned to your profile plus a            month’s access   to Friends of Writing Forums (FoWF) where you’ll  have       access to hidden forums. Pretty neat,  eh?

All entries that wish to retain their first rights should post in the *LM Workshop Thread**.*

All Judges scores will be PMed to* bdcharles* _as soon as possible after the competition closes. _*Note:* I will give judges *3 days* into the next month to deliver their scores and then I will post with what I have.

All anonymous entries will be PMed to* bdcharles*. 

Lastly, why not check out this ancient text on how to best approach this task.


*Rules*





*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum. 
*No Poetry!*               Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a  place     for      your     poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges  for   good        competition  over    there. Some of us fiction people    wouldn’t be   able      to understand  your    work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges. Play the prose-poem game at your own risk. 
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there. 
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored. 
*Only one entry per member.* 
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.*               If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft      Word    is     the   standard for checking this. If you are unsure  of     the  word    count    and   don't have Word, please send your  story  to    me and  I'll    check it    for you. 






*There are a few ways to post your entry:*





If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread. 
You can opt to have your entry posted in *the Workshop *which               is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put  your       story       there  if you wish to protect your first rights,  in  case   you    wish  to      have the  story published one day. Note:  If  you  do  post    it in  the      workshop thread,  you must post a  link  to it   here in    this  thread      otherwise your story may  not  be  counted. 
You       may post      your story   anonymously.  To do so, send your story  to     the  host of  the       competition. If you wish to  have us post  it  in    the  workshop    thread   then   say so. Your name will be   revealed   upon   the    release of  the   score. 



Everyone is welcome to participate, _including judges_. A judge's     entry will receive a           review by their fellow judges, but it     will not receive a score.   Please         refrain from 'like'-ing or     'lol'-ing an entry until the   scores  are        posted.

Judges: In the tradition of LM competitions of yore, if you could send               the scores one week after the closing date it will ensure a      timely  release    of results.    Please     see the *Judging Guidelines* if you have questions. Following the suggested formatting will be much appreciated, too. 

*This competition will close on:*Monday  night 15th of April at 11:59:59 PM, GMT, on the  dot. Please note     any time differences where you are and be mindful of daylight savings     time.​
Scores would be appreciated by the last day of the current month, at the   latest, pretty please, cherry on top, mmm? Too much later than that  and  I will have to post with any scores that I have.

Click here for the current time. Good luck!


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## Tim (Apr 2, 2019)

*FEEDBACK (650 words.) Coarse Language Warning.*

*FEEDBACK*



Tom Cromwell looked dead tired. His skinny fingers toiled over the keyboards. The six computer screens reflected eerily in his coke-bottle glasses. Other than his single bed, a chest of drawers and a chair; there was no other furniture in the small warehouse. The unpainted, concrete walls echoed every keystroke he made and the outside world was silenced, virtually non-existent.

_"__Last__ chance__," _he thought. "_I'm out of __money__ and __time__."_

     The Police gave him a day to move out and that was yesterday. His time-machine was worthless, unless it worked. He looked at the white coffin-shaped-pod and it hissed at him quietly. Carbon-dioxide vapor escaped the cooling-jacket overflows, drifting lazily downward and rolled across the floor.

_"Here goes everything,"_ he thought, holding his breath.

     He knew he was stalling the inevitable and his finger touched the enter key on the master keyboard. The lights went out: Total inky blackness...Nothing...Silence...

     Slowly, his chin slumped to his chest, tears of failure welled up in his closed eyes. He sank to the floor with a pained sob, kneeling in the cold, lonely darkness.

      Click! His head shot up; eyes snapping wide open. He saw a dancing blue light emitted by the open hatch of the pod. A small golden haired girl sat up and leveled a pistol at him.

      "Time to die Dr. Cromwell," she said and looked down at the rolling green numbers on the skin of her left arm. "In one minute and fifteen seconds."

      He stood and walked toward her with hesitant, unsure steps, "How did you get in there?... Who are you?"

      "You don't have much time Doctor," she smiled sorrowfully. "Only one minute, to be precise."

      "And then you'll shoot me?" he said, looking at her across the top of his glasses.

      "Just Fuckin' with you Doc," she giggled, tossing him the gun. "Take a seat."

      Cromwell stared down at his own body and the pistol in his hand. An icy ball of fear churned in the pit of his stomach, for somehow, he was seated awkwardly in his chair in front of her.

_"__How the __hell__ did she do that?__"_ he thought.

      "Compared to Creation, moving you and your chair is child's play. Get it?" she asked, grinning and pointing to herself. "Child's play...Me...A child...Ah, never mind."

      She tilted her head to the side. "You look sick, Doc."

      Cromwell felt the fear evaporate, replaced by a sensation of warm, overwhelming well-being.

      She asked, "Have you heard of The Butterfly Effect?"

_"Yes,"_ he thought.

      "Good. But just to make myself clear," she said, sternly. "I can't allow you to travel forward in time. It would destroy the entire Universe because of feedback. Your little stunt would cause a minuscule ripple-loop in time, which would eventually consume everything. Similar to the effect of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil, setting off a tornado in Texas."

_"Feedback?"_

      "Yes. Feedback," she said. "The future feeding back into the past, consuming itself endlessly, until there is nothing left. Think rock-band with a lousy sound-man."

      The Doctor heard a loud high-pitched-squeal in his head...Wincing...Deafened. He looked at her through his pained eyes and tried to speak, but the words were frozen in his throat.

      "They've been knocking for a while, Doc," she said. "Hope you didn't pay too much for that door." 

      Hardwood splinters flew through the air. The door smashed back on it's hinges. The lock landed near his feet. Cromwell's confused eyes turned toward the armed Police officers: Their lips were moving, faces intent, the gun in his hand rose toward them.

      The high-pitched-squeal in his mind faded to a tranquil, serene peace. The golden-haired girl walked beside him, holding his hand with her tiny, warm hand.

      She smiled up at him, "Didn't hurt a bit, did it?"


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## SueC (Apr 3, 2019)

*Duplicate*


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## SueC (Apr 3, 2019)

*Toilet Paper Wings*
(650 wds)

Toilet paper use is taught in early days. Acknowledging that every person in the world has a preference on texture and thickness, we may often find ourselves adjusting our own first choice, only because of what is available at the moment of need.

Jonathan Drake was a fastidious man. He had been educated in the country's most prestige universities, and was able to provide a lengthy discourse on any period of history that may be discussed. As he was frequently sought after to speak at seminars and other esteemed gatherings, his curriculum vitae grew to look as if it could be published on its own merits alone.

It would be no surprise to anyone that Jonathan was extremely persnickety about his personal appearance and his personal comfort. He was known for a sharp appearance and had suits hand- tailored by a small men's clothing outlet in Singapore.

Jonathan Drake had no sense of humor to speak of. His upbringing, education, and accomplishments held little room for a quality he saw unnecessary to develop. Jokes from others fell flat in his presence, and colleagues soon learned to not even try. His life was predictable; he was organized and suffered no upsets. His days ran like clockwork, everyday. His morning routine began with sit-ups, a quick shower, shave and of course, his daily toilet.

Jonathan knew of a company in Dubai that not only produced gold toilets, but also a toilet paper that left gold flecks on a bottom and was supposed to make one feel wonderful. While recognizing that the over one-million dollar price tag was too extreme, he nonetheless felt he deserved something similarly comfortable. The paper he routinely purchased was an ultra soft, cloth-like 4-ply and not made in the United States. He had to order it four weeks in advance of need.

And so, when Jonathan had been invited to speak at the commencement exercise for Notre Dame University, he went prepared with two rolls of the pricey stuff in his carry on.

In all the research anyone could do on Jonathan Drake, famed historian, there was never any mention of a sensitivity to broccoli. To be fair, even Jonathan was not aware, since he avoided that particular vegetable like the plague. Too messy; too green. It did, however, appear on his plate at the graduation luncheon and not wanting to seem finicky, he ate the little tree down with gusto.

After lunch, while waiting for his turn at the podium, an alarming rumbling began in his lower intestine. He shifted on his folding chair, trying to dislodge whatever was making the noise, but it wasn't long before the sound became more audible. A colleague gave him an over-the-glasses stare. Even more alarming was the idea of going to a public bathroom to take care of the impending problem, but he had no choice.

Taking small, hurried steps, Jonathan raced down the hall to the first men's room he saw. He let out a sigh of gratitude, realizing he was the only one there. Seated then, he felt a sense of immense relief as he evacuated himself.

Only then did he notice the 1-ply, rough-textured toilet paper that was his only option to complete the job.

Glancing at his watch, he unrolled yard after yard of the scratchy stuff and proceeded to do what he must. He quickly reassembled himself, glanced in the mirror as he washed his hands and sped out the door, back to the graduation ceremony.

Like a skywriters stream, a long, white band followed him down the aisle and up to the podium. The room erupted in laughter and Jonathan, initially unable to determine the joke, soon realized that they were laughing at him.

For the first time in recorded history, Jonathan Drake, historian extraordinaire, got the joke; and he laughed.

"A funny thing happened on my way to . . . "


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## luckyscars (Apr 5, 2019)

A Near Miss - 650 Words


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## buck06191 (Apr 7, 2019)

The Butterfly Effect - 647 words


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## Bardling (Apr 12, 2019)

*It Could Have Been Anyone*

It would have been someone, eventually. On the east coast of North America, it was a supply sergeant in an overrun outpost far through the Gate on another world.  On the West Coast, it was discovered by Shamenka Jones, during her experiments at the Berkeley Gate Academy.  In the Gulf, where the local Gate was dominated by the privately owned Civitas Militia, the person was a lowly contract worker named Tracy. 

Tracy was just a poor shard holder, scratching a living at the edges of greater things, minion and servant to richer and more powerful adventurers.  She could summon a phantom servant to carry supplies or loot, she could skin an animal or gather useful plants.  She hoped one day to earn a stronger shard, a real adventurer’s shard, something useful in a fight.  Something that could make her powerful. 

Tracy sighed as she searched the knee high corpses of spiders for loot, her gloves stained with their black ichor.  The group that had hired her were crueler than most.  They seemed to take pleasure in insulting and brow beating her.

A glimmer at the corner of her eye drew her attention.  Light reflected off the edges of something embedded in a spider with a green and gold pattern on its back.  She vaguely remembered it jumping at the big melee fighters face – mostly because of the girly screams.  She held her breathe as she pulled it out. 

It was a shard.

A dark grey crystal, seven sides tapering down to a sharp point.  She had never seen a shard like it, which wasn’t surprising.  Shards this deep in the Otherworlds were only for the rich.   For a moment she contemplated stealing it, maybe even slicing it right here.

It was too risky.  It might be a monstrous shard, and people who sliced those died or wished they had.  If she tried to sell it or identify it, her theft would be discovered.  It was obviously not a low level shard. 

She stood up, the shard in her hand and turned around.  Maybe the idiots would be pleased enough with her find that they would lay off her for a little.

Instead, she was blindsided as her phantom stumbled into her and she fell down among the corpses and black ichor.  Heavy footsteps passed her and someone even jumped over her as she screamed in surprise and flailed violently trying to get up.  Her phantom disappeared and she saw the oncoming swarm.  Her eyes wide, she rolled over and stumbled up to her feet and then into a run.  The adventurers were already ahead of her, running as fast as they could, and she felt the cold claws of anger in her gut.  They had obviously left her to be killed.

In the back of her mind, she wondered if they meant to sacrifice her to slow the swarm of monsters down. 

And if they had done it before.

Finally, she escaped.  She endured the complaints and insults of her temporary employers in silence.

The next day she woke in her cramped, dingy room.  She prepared for a new day of scraping and crawling for her betters. 

And she found that her shard had changed.

Instead of just summoning a phantom servant, she could summon a phantom spiderling too. Instead of a weak construct of magic, that could only carry supplies or at best act as a fragile meatshield, she had a summon that could fight.

She had a way to find out what a shard could do, without paying the Militia’s fees.  She had a compliant Guinea pig, that could use whatever abilities it gained to protect her.

This was the beginning of the end for the Militia’s stranglehold on the Gate, and the start of the revolution against the tyrant called John Smith.

It could have been anyone.  This time, it was Tracy.


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## Rookish (Apr 13, 2019)

Tragedy of the blind Lepidopterist (649 words)


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## epimetheus (Apr 14, 2019)

*Upon Wings of Passion.*
(645 words)

A guard crumpled at my feet, his bones cracking upon the white marble bridge, now thick with blood. High upon the city wall my skeletal minions ravaged the ramparts, tearing flesh, delivering death. The bronze gate was asunder, their champion but carrion before it; soon the crows would pick his flesh from between his armour. I could only hope he was still alive when they did. 

I entered the city that I once called home, the city that taught me the power of pain. The city that I would burn. I focused to summon all of my power, my raised hand licked by purple flames, soothing my scars. Yes, every part of my body remembered how they tortured me, how they gave me the crimson scars that twist down my whole body; obscene veins that made others see me as if through a fractured mirror. The scars had made people hate me more, even though they were the ones who had inflicted them upon me; with stones, with whips, with brands. And all for helping some lepers with arts considered profane. And finally, they came with priests and flame. Upon the stake, I had looked through tendrils, yellow and red, to see the faces of the peasants baying for death, delighting in my screams, the nobles looking down from gilded parapets, impassive to my pleas, and the sanctimonious priests and their sterile fervour. I hated them all with a passion I didn’t know could exist, and my flesh had turned to fury. It was no longer flame that burned me, but something other. Power. But I could not control it and undirected it ripped me from that place and spat me beyond the city walls. 

In the scrabbled years that followed I learnt that light only exists to cast shadow. And in that darkness, I forged power. I ate sticks to survive when they nearly found me at Lorlock’s Forest. Kindling. I drank my own piss when they hounded me onto Teller’s Sea. Fuel. I ripped the heart from a witch hunter and reanimated his corpse by drinking his blood. Fire. 

Through the city streets I walked as winged beasts ripped about the night air and stone crumbled. Through a passage: two figures darted alongside me. A girl holding the hand of a young boy. They froze in my gaze, and trembled as I approached them, the girl wrapping her arms around the boy. Her brown eyes, wavering. Without thinking I raised my flaming hand to her – instinctively I knew she held something for me. Some memory picked at a loose thread in my violent tapestry. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. 

“Please…” was all she could say.

I remembered. 

I remembered when I prayed to silent gods that mercy was a thing. I recognised the courage it must have taken her to mumble even that one word. Fear looked different from this side: I would never have believed it, but it was even more ugly.

Beside me a minion stopped, its starved fingers drawing blood from the throat of some peasant, but yet to seize death. It looked at me, as I imagine they all did, before folding to the floor. My fury gone, I could not sustain them. I took flight from the city, high upon wings of mercy, following the detritus I had wrought.  


Decades later and the city was celebrating the Battle of the Bridge. They boasted of victory, of how they had bravely slain the undead that had assailed them, the evil sorceress fleeing from their righteousness. Some even believed it. But those who still wake in cold sweat in the dead of night, those who wear the marks of spectral fingers, those whose dreams are strung in entrails, they whisper the question that haunts them. _Why did she spare us?_ 

I like to think one woman in the city knows.


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## Megan Pearson (Apr 15, 2019)

The Butterfly Effect (644 words)


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## Stygian (Apr 15, 2019)

*Literary Maneuvers April 2019 Submission*

*Out of Time (648 Words. Coarse Language and disturbing content warning)
*
Mark was tied down to a wooden chair. Fear and dread was setting in. His stomach lurched from rising panic. It was hard to make out the room. A single flood light above his head would not allow his vision to focus on his surroundings. He could smell a faint whiff of gasoline in the air.


  A door creaked open on the far side of the room. A man in a black suit came into view. He grabbed a chair and sat in front of Mark. Without a word, he reached into his pocket and fished out a pack of smokes. He struck a match, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag, never breaking his gaze on Mark.


  “W-who the hell are you? W-what do you want from me? Why the hell am I tied to a chair?” Mark cried out. The fear was causing him to stutter. “Look, I don’t have much. I’ll give you whatever you want. I promise, I won’t tell anyone anything. Please, just let me go!” Mark pleaded.


  “Kid, it’s not so simple. The people I work with have a special interest in you. When they take interest in people, it rarely ends well for them.” The man flicked his cigarette into a dark corner and walked over to Mark. He crouched down to look Mark in the eye. “Shit, you’ve already pissed yourself.” Mark’s fear took hold. He fought his restraints with all his strength, but they wouldn’t budge.


  “Let me go, you psychopath! I don’t know why anyone wants me dead. I haven’t done anything!” Mark yelled out in frustration.


  “I could put a round in you and be on my way. Unfortunately, it’s a bit more complicated.” He said with a sigh. The stench of cigarette smoke from his breath was overpowering. “Look, we can do this in one of two ways. You can give me the access code to your program willingly, or resist, and I will make you wish you were dead.” The man said with a wicked smile.


  “The access code, why in the hell do you want that? It’s just a program to allow people to connect over the internet. It’ll bring millions of people together from all over the world.” Mark trailed off in a whisper.


  “Kid, that program will kill millions. People will use manufactured information to start mass dissent, uprisings, and throw us back to the dark ages.” The man laughed and playfully slapped Mark on his face. “Hard to believe you’re so naive.” The man stood up, he glared down at Mark. “Cut the shit, kid, just give me the code.” The smell of acrid smoke was getting worse. Mark could see a fire starting to come to life where the man flicked his cigarette.


  “How do you know all that? Are you from the future? How can my program do something like that?” Mark was confused and suddenly aware of the spreading fire. “If I give the codes to you, what will keep you from killing me?”


  “My boss has sent me here to nip the problem in the bud. The changes we make to history will have a resounding affect in our time. This is the only way to prevent mankind from falling into anarchy.” 


  The door creaked open again, and another man walked in. His features mirrored Mark’s own. “The orders have changed. The code has been cracked. We have to leave at once.” The imposter told the man in the suit. “Just leave him here. No one will bother sifting through the ashes for a body.”


“Damn, they really sent an android body double, huh? Seems the boss wants to control Facebook rather than purge it.” He looked at the android quizzically and shrugged. “Sorry kid, it’s nothing personal.” He turned and left with the android. The conflagration consumed everything, including the anguished screams of Mark Zuckerberg.


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## Kebe (Apr 15, 2019)

*A Memory from the Past (644 words)*


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## bdcharles (Apr 15, 2019)

*07291878 rocky mountain*
(anon)


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## bdcharles (Apr 15, 2019)

*Family Tree*
(anon)


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## bdcharles (Apr 23, 2019)

*Late entry due to extenuating circumstances*

*Change Time By Godofwine (506 words)*

Harold,  nerves rattled, pulled the door handle and threw his shoulder against  the driver’s side door, but it didn’t budge. He looked in disgust across  the car at the dented-in passenger door, into the backseat, then back at  the road. The horn from the 18-wheel semi barreling toward him  was deafening. 
Twenty-five feet from him and closing. 
Twenty. 
Ten. 
His heart felt as if it would leap from his chest.
The  accident almost a minute before had shaken him, his Civic disabled,  cocked sideways in the middle of the highway. Cars zoomed by him,  narrowly missing his vehicle as he sat across two lanes. As the  unavoidable moment of impact loomed before him, he turned toward the  back seat. Desperately,he tried to indelibly imprint the image of his 3  year-old daughter on his brain.His brow furrowed, he forced a smile onto  his face to keep her calm. She smiledand reached out for him from her  car seat. He wanted to remember her like that,as she was, as she would  never be again. 
Tears welled in in his eyes and each fell one at a time. 
Harold held his breath as his daughter gently touched his outstretched hand with her little fingers.
Another tear fell.
He was supposed protect her, and he couldn’t. A simulationof every memory they would never have flowed into his mind’s eye. 
She  stood between he and her mother as they entered kindergarten. The  nervous look in her eyes as she looked up at her parents, andthen into a  classroom of strange children of varying hues and colors.
Her name is called, and she picks up her honor roll ribbon from her third-grade teacher.
From  the stands, he and his wife looked on as she drew her leg back and  kicked a soccer ball that flew just out of reach of the diving goalie.  The both cheered as his daughter ran and jumped into the sea of  waiting teammates.
Another tear fell.
Footsteps  pounded the stairs and shrill screams fill the air as she ran into the  room. “Stanford! Daddy, I got into Stanford!” she yelled.
In  a dark auditorium, her name is called again. His daughter strolled  across the stage wearing her cap and gown. What seemed to be an eternal  smile was pasted on her face as a man handed her the diploma.
With  an armful of boxes, he trudged up two flights of stairs and into a tiny  dorm room. His daughter rambled on and on into her phone walking in front  of him. She was so excited she didn’t notice the tears in his eyes.
Another tear fell.
His  world exploded in a cacophony of noises he was unable to differentiate.  That was followed by a period of weightlessness that had no end,and a  scream he was unable to tell if it was his own. An inky blackness  enveloped him, and his final thought was of a butterfly flapping its  wings over a field in Peking, wishing he could change what had occurred.


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