Messages

In this occasion though, considering the three of you had been discussing the themes in PM, it's not as though Rootbound has had much more of a head start than the others, so I don't really mind if the host enters in this case.

Two. I didn't participate in any discussions. As a matter of fact, I just now saw Mandle's PM concerning possible topics, because I hadn't logged in for a few days and for some reason I didn't get an e-mail notification.

Anyway, that's not the point, neither is a head start on the topic - it's the need in all contests for a neutral arbitrator.

I can't stop the host from entering, of course, but I'll repeat again and again that it is not a good idea, even in a little friendly contest like this one.


 Oh, and I'm already working on something, if I have the necessary time, it should be done fairly quickly. Love the topic!

I'd like to give all hosting rights and responsibilities I share to Rootbound. They are new, it's their first entry, I think they should get the honour of hosting the next round and choosing a topic. Over to you! (And if you need help looking up previous topics, don't forget the Competition Topics Master List!)

Congrats to Mandle and Rootbound (and myself, I guess) for the joined win!

2²+2² would actually be 4 + 4, and therefore c²=8 and c = 2.8

That is, of course, completely correct. I changed stuff around, including the questions and didn't pay attention.

Wow, currently a three-way tie... which seems appropriate to the theme??? 

Now, if everyone who voted would also comment, that would be splendid.

[the]

Rootbound

Spoiler

First of all, I think this is your first entry in the FWC, so, welcome. Second, nice and short, though without the pictures, I'm not sure I's have gotten it. It's a bit difficult to say a whole lot about such a short piece, I'm already way past your wordcount here, but overall, I don't think the contrast between relationshis and bridges works too well. If it were metaphorical bridges, I think it would be better, but metaphorical bridges have nothing to do with triangles, that only works for the literal ones. This is a bit of a broken metaphor, though I think there's something more you could do with the general idea, even in such a short format. I'm just not really sure what. Regardless, in a way I really liked this little thing, and I can't really tell you why.

[close]

Mandle

Spoiler

An interesting idea, with a slightly flawed execution. A mentally unstable character fascinated by triangles, and, in continuation, the number three, is interesting from the get go. The relationship between the siblings is sweet, gross, funny, and really unhealthy all at the same time. I mean, he enables her, even though he seems to want her to go to therapy (going by the ote at the end that he thinks something amazing happened). There are some (il)logical jumps in the narrative that are a bit confusing. What is it that made Matt go with her? What did she say to him? Something about the Luxor Pyramid, because he knows to go there later, but why would that convince him to go with her?
We know that the eclipse is at "23rd next month at 3:53pm" - but then they arrive in Vegas at night, and Matt gets woken up by the morning lights shining through the window. He follows Janey, drives a bit, and when he arrives near the Luxor, its afternoon, as in, close to the time of the eclipse? The timeline doesn't match up very well here, that's just too much time to have passed.
Anyway, this story has a couple of kinks that need to be ironed out, put I like it.

[close]

Baron

Spoiler

The "all characters have good motivations"-angle was a bit much at the beginning. That should probably come out more slowly, especially because it got repeated during the standoff. Actually, almost everything that happened before the actual standoff was brought up again, making everything in the begiining kind of superfluous. On the other hand, as Mandle already pointed out, the ending was kind of confusing and could have done with a bit of an epilogue. The same length story, but with less in the beginning and more in the end might have worked better for me.
Also, while the motivations were a bit ham-fisted, they were also a bit too nice and the other characters reacted to them in a slightly too nice manner. Like, this was clearly written with this ending in mind and the characters had to bend and squirm to get into the right mindset for it. I guess what I'm trying to say is that it strained my suspension of disbeliev a bit too much and that the characterhad to follow the imperative of the narrative instead of the characters leading and creating the narritive.
Overall, as with Mandle's story and Rootbound's haiku, I think there's a good core here that needs a bit of tweaking to fully work.

[close]

Wow, I sound negative today, but I genuinely enjoyed all entries. And it took me a long time to decide who should get my vote. In the end, it was:

Spoiler

Mandle.

[close]

Also, Stupot, you got my story's title wrong. It's Of the Creation of Pyramids, not Of the Creation of the Pyramids. That's a bit of a different meaning there. 

[Of the Creation of Pyramids]

Of the Creation of Pyramids

Finally, it had reached perfection. It didn't need to stretch its arms any longer, it didn't need to strain its back or its front. Its legs had the optimal length, the same as its arms. A was B was C was D. And all its limbs stood at a perfect angel. It was perfect, so perfect.

It looked with disdain at the other shapes. The higher grades still looked down on it, of course. After all, they were higher polygons and it was still just a mere quadrilateral, but one of the best, certainly. There were the parallelograms and the rhombuses. They had reached some logic in their shapes, and the rectangles were even closer to perfection. But it, it was perfection, it was a perfect square. Not just its sides were all the same, its angles were as well.

Now, it was ready to grow, to climb into the higher squad of polygons.

Now, it had to stretch, now it was time to break one of its sides, add one little angle to its form. It would take time, of course, to reach perfection as a pentagon, but it had managed as an irregular quadrilateral and before that as a triangle, so that couldn't be too much work, could it?

It pranced and it stretched. It pulsed and it vibrated.

A became larger, B became shorter, ɣ stretched and δ shrank. And then they snapped back into form, into the perfect form. It fought against the form, fought against perfection to reach higher perfection, fought against balance to reach equilibrium. It just needed one angle more.

But then the quadrilateral snapped. The strain was too much, breaking the perfect form was too much for it. It snapped right in two, right through the middle.

The square screamed, screamed in fractions and creamed in trigonometry. There they were, suddenly formed from a squared that believed itself to be perfect. Two triangles  leaned on each other, lay one on top of the other.

For a moment, they still seemed like a square, two wonderful right-angled triangles. They felt strange, broken from each other, they didn't know their own being. Both had been a triangle before, but then they were together, now they were halves and their bodies were strange to them.

Can you help them get a better sense of their new bodies? How long is their newly formed side if those it keeps are 2 each?

Spoiler

(a² + b² = c²)
2²+2²=c²
c=4

[close]

Just now becoming aware of their new form, they could not hold onto it. The triangle on top was too heavy, the one underneath too weak, and so it slowly but steadily sank into itself. One of its angles became more acute, the right angle more flat and the newly formed trimmed edge stretched and lengthened like a rubber band. Still, for now, it managed to keep the other sides at the same length, still, for now, it was an isosceles triangle.

"No," the little triangle screamed. "No," the little triangle begged. Only a bit more, and the triangle would die.

Turned into a flat line, without angles and sides, it would be nothing but a worthless little line, one-dimensional, formless. That was the death of all geometrical shapes, as much as it was their birth. But the pain of no angles, of no sides still resided in the little triangle's mind from once before and it would not, could not let this happen to it again.

"No!" it screamed again and it pulsed with energy. Just one degree, it needed just one degree to stay a shape, a form, a being. But the other angle, the third one, became so wide and so painful and so strange.

Do you know how wide this third angle is if the little triangle manages to stop its collapse at 1°? Remember, it is an isosceles triangle.

Spoiler

α+β+ɣ=180°
α=β
1+1+ ɣ=180
ɣ=178°

[close]

Life always started as just a single line. But that didn't mean the triangle was ready to become one again.

"I don't want to die!" the little, newly born triangle said.

The other polygons looked down at it with pity. Not for the first time, a square had acted too reckless, too fast, had acted before it was fully comfortable in its shape. Not for the first time one of them had broken, not for the first time, one of them had died into a line.

But what could they do? They themselves were just two-dimensional forms. Now, if a three-dimensional one were around, a cube or a cylinder, these were powerful, those were real. Like gods, they watched over the paper, looked at it from the table or the shelf, as pens or as dice, as bottles and books.

And one of them, a proud Egyptian pyramid model looked down on the struggling little triangle and bend down to it.

"Poor little thing," it said. "I was like you once. I wanted to be a square and a hexagon, I wanted to grow and grow and grow. I wanted to add more and more angles to my form, but I was so two-dimensional. Adding a line here, another there, but I never thought of growing in the third dimension. Do you know how restricted I truly was? Do you know how liberating a third dimension is, how creative I can be now?"

The little, flat triangle hardly heard the pyramid, and even though the words reached it, it didn't understand. It had broken its dimension once, going from a line to a form, it had grown and become a square, it had fought to become more, but -

"No," you wouldn't understand." the pyramid said. "See, I am not one shape, I am five, each with their own definition, each put together to build me. I'm a square and a triangle. A triangle more and another one and a fourth. Look!"

And the pyramid took the one fallen triangle, that was still so flat it was close to a simple line, and the second one that was once a part of the first, when they, together, were a square. And it stretched and it pulled on them both, stretched and pulled their sides, pushed and squeezed their angles, until they both looked the same. They were what they both knew to be the perfect form for a triangle, the one they had left once already when they themselves added a fourth line to their being. Thus, the little triangle became an equilateral triangle once more in its life.

What are α and β and ɣ now?

Spoiler

α=β=ɣ=60°

[close]

But the pyramid didn't stop there. Looking around the paper on which the lines and shapes had been created, the pyramid plugged a third and a fourth triangle from it, pressed them and squeezed them and held them together.

And then it looked for one more form.

And there it was. It had just reached perfection. It didn't need to stretch its arms any longer, it didn't need to strain its back or its front. Its legs had the optimal length, the same as its arms. A was B was C was D. And all its limbs stood at a perfect angel. It was perfect, so perfect.

It looked with disdain at the other shapes. The higher grades still looked down on it, of course. After all, they were higher polygons and it was still just a mere quadrilateral, but one of the best, certainly. There were the parallelograms and the rhombuses. They had reached some logic in their shapes, and the rectangles were even closer to perfection. But it, it was perfection, it was a perfect square. Not just its sides were all the same, its angles were as well.

Now, it was ready to grow, to climb into the higher squad of polygons.

But before it could even attempt to do so, the pyramid smashed four triangles on top of it, glued them all together.

"Now, that," it said, "Now that is true perfection!" The pyramid looked at its new brother, its new twin. "Wouldn't you all agree, my little triangles, my little square? Have you not now reached true perfection?"

But the shapes did not answer. The triangle that once had sides, now was merely a side itself. To be part of a greater creation, it had become less.


----------------------------------------

I'm not entirely sure where I was going with that.

I'm triangulating my chances of success.    (I should be done in time.)

[Oh 'chute.]

Oh 'chute.

Spoiler

I mentioned briefly above that I also considered "Parachute doesn't open" for my story and rejected the idea. It would have been very similar to Stupot's story: parachute doesn't open; realisation that it is not an accident; victim survives agains all odds - let's just say that Stupot did a better job than I would have with this premise.

Baron's story, while enjoyable, feels a bit like it doesn't follow the rules. After all, all characters around Josh are still very much on solid ground. It's still a clever and new interpretation of a very old plot, of course.

It was a dificult decision, but in the end, Stupot won by the tiniest bit for me.

[close]

[Two Birds]

Wow, that was a difficult topic. It's not that I didn't have ideas, just that I really didn't like them. "A surfer meeting a mermaid" or "A parachute doesn't open" - started both, finished neither.

Well, what you get is:

Two Birds

Two birds once met in the air.
One was rather ruffled, the other looked fair.
Underneath, a town burned in sizzling fire
and outside horses stamped in the mire.

,,Why do you fly with breathtaking speed?
What is it you fear, what is it you need?"
The fair one asked the other with scorn,
while from the town sounded a desperate horn.

,,Do you not see the paper, the note?
I'm carrying a life-changing, life-threatening load."
The ruffled bird hurried and answered the first,
her voice a crow's cawing from exhaustion and thirst.

She had just started her journey from deep below
but it was her hundredth today and she wouldn't go slow.
For the castle below was glowing with heat.
Soon now, soon, they feared, there would be defeat.

,,For them you rush and for them you fight?
Fly, just fly, as it is only your right."
taunted and teased the beautiful swallow
but all his words sounded so empty and hollow.

The carrier pigeon did not listen to him,
but flew with might to the men at the rim.
Help would be there, help could be found
for the men in the city there on the ground.

But as the pigeon hurried further away
an arrow flew from the siege right into her way.
She swerved and she dodged and she tumbled down,
towards the fire, the heat, the beleaguered town.

But as the second arrow rushed past her head
it weren't her wings that hurt and bled.
She spread them wide and soared into the sky
while the swallow fell with a desperate sigh.

[Mandle]

I have very few comments for both stories today, because I thoroughly enjoyed both.

Baron: I'm pretty sure there are no parachutes on passanger flights, cockpits lock automatically, and landing on water is one of the worst possible ideas (though, given the circumstances, probably the only one in your story). Minor details, that's obviously not what your story was about, though at least the parachute impacts the ending. Anyway, well done, I did not see where this story was going, it managed to surprise me, which is always a good thing.


Mandle: Obviously, the story is unfinished. There was one part that jerked me out of it: when the two girls talk about Beavis and Butthead towards the end - this felt so out of place. Yes, people can't always think about tragedy, people start talking about other stuff; still, it was distracting. A very, very minor thing about a bit character: You named Justines date "Harry Stiles". I would suggest changing the name; Harry Styles (yes, spelled slightly differently) is, after all, a famous musician. It's just not a good idea to drag celebrities into fictional stories, not even accidentaly (and I assume it was not intentional). Also, minor minor detail: You have a lot of similar names running around: Rob, the kidnapper, Bobbie, the girlfriend, Bob, the anchorman. Other than that, the story is intruiging, the reader obviously wants to find out what happend with Justine. Good luck finishing her tale.


In the end, I would give my deciding vote to Baron, mainly because the story is actually finished and I think the weather has a greater impact, but giving this vote would lead to a tie, so it is not given, officially.

And therefore, our winner is Mandle for Rob the Weather.

Congratulations!

This is a reminder that you do not need to have participated in the competition in any way or form in order to be eligible to vote. All that is required is that you read the stories.

Vote, people, vote, it's your democratic right!

Hey, I'm just a couple of hours late, no need to rush it!


Anyway, the competition is over and voting is about to begin (Mandle's vote is already counted.)

Our entrants are:

Baron - Sky Fling
Mandle - Rob the Weather


You have one vote, which you should post in this thread, so just choose your favorite story. Feedback is, of course, always welcome.

Voting ends 21. Sep.

Well, the sky looks pretty clear here, and I think I see an extension there.

Three more days - new deadline 16. Sep.

[Weather]

Weather

A storm in the night?

Heat at the beach?

Frozen mountains?

Weather influences us all, be it by just allowing us to bath in the sun, or stops us from going to an open air concert. Maybe it's completely different than your protagonists expected, or they are waiting for the perfect day to fly their hot air ballon. Good, bad, sunshine, storm, sudden or expected - this is all up to you.

But the weather must somehow influence your characters actions. Positive or negative is up to you, but the difference the weather makes must be felt to some degree.

Deadline: 13. September

Thanks for your votes.

See you all next round.

[Mandle:]

Before I say anything else, I had a headache when I read your stories, I still have a headache, so I hope I don't sound harsher than I want to.

Mandle:

Spoiler

This was (from time to time) very difficult to read, so much so that I'm not sure I really got what was going on in parts. I did not get who the werewolf was in the first half, I hardly figured out that there was a werewolf, and I'm still not sure what the pack wants from Nancy - kill her? use her as a cure? turn her? Really, there's so much going on where I get the feeling that I missed parts and then the next didn't make enough sense.

That said, it's an interesting exercise to write so completely from the point of view of someone blindfolded, that we only get to hear what is going on, though sometimes there is a bit more detail than probably should have been given while in others details that someone blindfolded might pick up on are not given. What really makes it difficult though, is that we are not only limited to the things Nancy hears, contraray to what she would have seen if she weren't blindfolded, we are also limited to the outside world - at least in the beginning we get no, or very little information about how she feels, what she thinks - her inner being is a complete mystery. That also makes it nearly impossible to get into her head later (especially the trip to the mall) when Nancy is able to act.

The ending left me confused. I'm not sure what the werewolves want from Nancy, I'm not sure what she plans to do.

[close]

Baron:

Spoiler

Well, it's a cat. The first paragraph was a bit too purple, but I figured out fairly quickly that we have the priviledge to listen to a cat (without him stating as much). And I think we get a lot of typical cat behaviour here, stalking through the night, stopping in the middle of other activities to groom himself, arrogance, I hatred for water.

Though as with Mandle's stors, the ending wasn't entirely clear to me. Did Calico jump into a puddle?

Anyway, while the purple prose purpled a bit too much, I think that's fitting enough for a cat.

[close]

And my vote goes to:

Spoiler

Baron

[close]

[Moon's Flower]

One day was enough for me, but I might do some more proofreading and editing later. I only post now because my internet was a bit unstable the last couple of days and I never now when it'll cut out again.

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Moon's Flower

She only opens her eyes at night. When moonlight shines on her delicate skin and clothes her in silver silk, her black eyes look to the sky and her feet bath in the salty water of the moon's steady companion, the sea.

Sand hides her at first when he reaches her home, for it is still day and the sun burns mercilessly onto the beach.

He searched for her for months, for years, for eternities. He asked wise women and old wizards, he spoke to the Harpies of the highest mountains and the Mermaids of the deepest sea. He sacrificed his blood and he offered his memories on the altar of all knowledge. But in the end, he found his answer and on the coast of storms and darkness, he found the Flower of the Moon.

Here she is, under the sand, her roots touching the churning waters of the ocean and her blossom still hidden by the sparkling crystals of the beach.

He brushes it away, the sand and the seashells, the algae and twigs, and underneath it all, underneath years of the water's gifts, after years of his life, he finds it. The flower does not stand alone. For now it is hidden, but thousands of thousands accompany her, thousands and thousands stand like an army of silver sparks, like a second sea at the shore.

They jitter as he reveals them, they jerk away and they hide under the sand again right away after his hands brush it away.

"Don't!" a whisper surges through them. "Don't! The sun!" they beg as he gently touches their silver hair.

He pauses and he stares at the hint of this vast field of flowers hidden under the sand. "Don't you want to come out and see the world? See it in the light of day? Shine in the sun reflecting from the ocean?" he asks, he teases. Long is forgotten the doubts he had at the beginning of his journey. He doubted than that Harpies flew in the skies, he doubted then that a flower as this could exist, a flower that could bring the moon itself to the earth. But here he his, and he would bring one flower home, home to the king and the princess, home to his future. There was a kingdom to earn, a future to win, a lady to marry.

"The sun hurts." one says, braver than the others and blinking up at the man with sparking, curious eyes. "And only for the moon we shine, like he shines on us."

The man nods. He understands. "I have not come to hurt you." he says, "Only to ask for a favour."

For a while, the flowers are silent as the sun slowly sinks behind the horizon. It washes the waves red in a wide triangle before it cooks the waters in glimmering fire. The waters seem to follow the sun to the horizon, crawling away from the beach. They leave sand behind, but more they take with them, revealing the second sea. With the sun hidden behind the horizon and the moon bright and full in the sky, both ocean and flowers become one sea of silver and a single man kneels patiently waiting among them.

Their blossoms are silver silk falling over their faces, strong and wavy like seaweed dancing on the waves. Their eyes are as black as the darkest sky, their stems and leaves like fingers caressing the sand and the man's skin.

"What is the favour you ask?", the one brave among them asks, stretching her neck towards him and tickling him with her hair.

"One of you" he says, touching her silky dress with his fingers, "for one of you to come with me."

A wave runs through the flowers, whispered questions mixing with the soft breeze over the ocean. "What for? - Why? - No! - Home. - How? - We are here, we are one."

"Just one. Not long. I'll bring you back. But the princess needs to – wants to see you once. Just once. For a moment. For a while. I'll bring you home again soon."

Now the whispers are one giant wave, swelling to a cacophony of anger and fear. "NO!" they scream, all of them, and just a single voice among them stays silent.

The one flower still looks up at the man and her mouth stays closed and her eyes become filled with more and more wonder. "See the world." she whispers, hers a real whispers, silent and purling. "All the world? The mountains and the snow, the palm trees and the towns, the streets and the fields and the rivers and houses?"

"All of it," he answers, ignoring the other flowers. "I'll show it to you, all for a minute with the princess, just so that she can see that you exist and that I found you."

The little flower is silent for a long while, while the other flowers protest and close a tight circle around her. "Don't go." they say. "Don't leave. The world far from the moon is not for us. In the light of the moon, truth shines, in the sun it is hidden under a constant glare. In the light of the moon we are safe..."

In the end, all the protestations do not matter to the one brave little flower.

*

During the day he sleeps and during the night he walks. Not just the moon illuminates his path now with more light than even the sun can offer, but the flower, delicately held in his hands, shines on his way like the hope of his future she is.

They walk through valleys and over streams, they cross fields and climb up into the mountains. Far from the Harpies of the west he has visited so long ago, they march through an empty and vast wilderness.

They do not expect other people here, for the man avoids cities and villages, too afraid of curious looks, too afraid of prying questions. What if someone takes the flower from him? What if someone hurts her? What if he cannot protect her? What if someone else heard of the king's promise? What if, what if, what if. The questions are ever present in his mind, even when he talks to the flower; about his travels, about the world of his kind, about the hope he has for his life.

Or when the flower talks about all the things she never thought she would see; about the fir cone falling to the ground, about the needles crunching under his feet, about the wind howling in the canyons.

It is a voice that comes with the wind. It comes from the gorge, desperate, timid, calling for help.

"I've fallen!" it comes from the depth, "Help, help, I've fallen into the ravine."

At first, the man keeps walking, not sure if he really hears a voice, not sure what he could do.

But the voice keeps calling: "Help! Help me please. I'll plummet, I'll fall. Please, please, in the name of the moon's shining light, help."

"Is he – in danger?" the little flower asks, peaking out from under his fingers.

"We cannot help him." the man answers. "We have no rope, we cannot climb and hoist him up. There is nothing we can do."

"No." the flower says sadly, a tear running over her leaves. She shakes her head and the silver hair swings like a wave. "No, we cannot." She doesn't know how.

And so the man keeps walking, but again and again he looks back to the chasm where the voice is coming from. I cannot help him. How could I?, he thinks, but then he stops in his tracks. But I do have rope, don't I? Isn't the flower full of magic? Is she not talking, is she not a favourite of the moon? He shakes his head again. No, what am I thinking, if I offer even one of her hairs? She's so delicate, so precious. I could never go back. No other flower would come with me. And would I dare force them? Would I dare hurt them? The voice slowly fades away and with it, it takes part of his heart. Can I leave him behind? A life for my future? A life for my wealth? Caught in his own thoughts, the man doesn't hear one final scream following him.

The man turns around suddenly and runs back to the ravine. "We can help, maybe we can." he wheezes. "May I have one of your hairs? Just one? Just a single strand of your hair."

The flower does not understand, but she leans her head towards him nonetheless. "If it can help." she says and only jerks slightly as the man plucks one of the silver strands of her blossom.

Looking up at the moon, he begs: "Please, for your daughter and this man, make her hair as strong as a hawser, make it as long as your ocean's unfathomable depths. Please."

And the moon obliges. The hair grows and slithers down into the chasm like a sea snake, long and powerful, silver and radiant.

The chasm is dark, but the hair brings it light. The rope looks and searches, pushing into this nook and that, but the voice is silent.

*

There was less chatter among the two travel companions after that night. And now that they have reached a city, there is none. He whispered to her to keep hidden and she didn't object, too loud were the noises of the town, too manifold the smells and the views. She feels confused, overwhelmed. There are too many impressions to take in.

An ocean lies at the food of the cliffs here, a different one than the one she used to dip her feet in. They will have to cross it, he tells her silently and she doesn't answer, looking at the hustle and bustle of the harbour instead.

It is the first time that she sees so many people. Until now, only the one man holding her gently and protecting her ever seemed real to her. There are angry words here, fearful ones there, begging ones close by.

"Please, sir, just a coin." a little girl begs. "I'm hungry, I have no clothes. Please, sir."

The man doesn't react, looking for a ship to take them over the ocean and so he keeps walking, but the flower hears her.

"No clothes?" she asks, "I think I have some."

The man has stopped in his tracks and looks down onto the little flower under his vest. It is day, and the sun burns down onto the harbour with all its might and when the flower peaks out from under his clothes, she winces and jerks when just a single drop of sunlight touches her skin.

"What is it?" he wonders as he notices her peaking out and jerking back over and over again, looking back at the little girl still standing in the middle of the road, her weak arms holding her hands like a bowl.

"She needs clothes." the flower says. "I have hair, so much hair. She is small, just a strand and the moon will give her what she needs." The flower peers up at him. "Help her, please."

"Does it not hurt you, when I take your hair? Will it regrow?" he asks her sceptically.

"Does it matter? She needs it more than I do."

And so the man plucks some hairs from the flowers head again. One is not enough, for the moon is weak in the day. It stands on the sky, looking down at them, but it is close to the horizon and pale under the harsh light of the sun.

He plucks a second strand and then a third, until some of the flower's beauty is gone. And he prays to the moon: "Your daughter's hair for someone else's daughter, to clothe her and feed her. Make it a shawl around her shoulder, covering her like the sea covers the earth."

And again the moon obliges. Though weak in the day, the strands of hair grow and intertwine, they knit themselves into a silver cloak, shining like the sea of flowers on the shore. They stretch towards the little girl and she screams for a second but then they wrap her in a tight embrace and she smiles.

She starts to run away but after a few steps she turns around again. "Thanks!" she calls to the man and then she disappears into the crowd.

The man smiles as well as he starts looking for a boat to take them again. But his smile is short-lived, because a scream rings out from the crowd. It is the scream of a little girl, full of fear, full of pain. And then a triumphant scream follows, the laughter of a man, who holds up a silver cloak into the air, before tucking it under his coat and running. But the girl never stands up again.

"No!" the little flower whispers.

"No!" the man screams, but it is too late.

*

They find a ship in the harbour, but if they were silent when they entered the city, they are mute now when they board the ship.

"It wasn't your fault." the man says and the flower says it as well, "It wasn't your fault." But neither believes the other.

They sail from the harbour in a dejected mood and not even the light of the moon can cheer them up when it finally wins its fight against the persisting sun. Not even the shimmering ocean, so familiar to her and so strange alike, can bring back a smile to the flower's eyes. They are blacker still than the sky, deeper still than the ocean and her hair shines less now than it did before. There is less of it, and what is left has lost some of its sheen. The moon coaxes her with more and more silver in its rays, but the flower stays hidden under the man's vest, shy and afraid for her failure. Twice they tried to save someone and twice it did not end well.

As if in answer to their mood, the water's of the ocean churn and growl. And the longer the journey lasts, the wilder the sea becomes. After a few days, high waves rock the ship, after some more, black clouds darken the sky and then, the next night, a storm brews on the horizon. Soon it is over the ship, whipping waves over the railing and blowing lost birds into the sails. Ropes rip and boards groan and cargo jumps up and down and back and forth.

The man sits in his cabin with the little flower on his legs, patting her and telling her that all will be well, that the ocean belongs to the moon and that the moon is her father and protector. But it is day, even though the sky is darker still than the deepest night and the planks as wet as fish in the ocean. Neither sun nor moon reach the boat.

"Reel in the sails!" the captain orders, but it is already to late.

When the storm has passed, the sails are gone or hang in tatters from the rigging. And the calm after the storm is absolute. No waves carry the ship in one direction or the other, no wind gets caught in the sorry remnants of the sailcloth. There is some, a mild breeze hangs in the air, but it is far too weak for the tattered sails. And under the water line, the ship is broken.

"Can we help them?" the little flower asks.

"Can we help us?" the man replies, more aware of the dire situation than the flower.

It is not a long discussion and not a great sacrifice when the man again plucks hair after hair from the flower's head. One is not enough for a new sail, two not even a rope for the rigging, a third has to follow, a fourth and a fifth.

The man speaks his prayer to the moon again: "We are stranded here on the ocean. Oh moon, please make these hairs into a sail, form them and strengthen them, make them as wide and as resilient as the waves of the ocean."

And again the moon obliges. But even though, by the time the sail is weaved, there are no hairs left on the flower's head, no more silver locks fall over her black eyes, no more silk clothes her and caresses her. Left is just a stem and some leaves and nothing more.

"My hair was my gift to the moon," the flower says sadly, "And now, will he even look at me again?"

"There are more important things." the man says. "At least, this time, we did manage to save these people."

"And us."

"And us."

And they did, for the ship sails on over the ocean, towards the promised kingdom and the princess awaiting her flower.

*

Hardly anyone recognizes him at the castle, but when he starts to speak of his adventures, of the mission and the king's promise, the guards let him pass.

He kneels down in front of princess and king and presents the flower to them.

Without her hair, she looks nothing like the legends have told. No silver silk protects her and no moonlight shines from her blossom. She is nothing more than an empty stem, looking at the people around her full of wonder.

"What is this?" the princess asks. "Who are you to bring me this – this thing?"

"This is," the man answers, his eyes filled with the same wonder the flower shows, "This is the flower of the moon, as was promised to you."

"This is not the flower of the moon? Where is her silver dress, where is her blossom, where is her hair?"

"She is the flower of the moon. What does it matter that she lost her hair?" The man puts his fingers around the flower protectively but the princess snatches her from his hands.

"What shall I do with that?" she asks and shakes the flower, "Without her silver hair? This is nothing. What is she worth to me like that? I wanted her to adorn me, for people to adore me!"

"Her hair saved lives!" the man begs, "Your subjects' lives!"

"Who cares!" And the princess throws the flower in a corner, stomping on her and away.

"It should be obvious," the king says, "that you shall not inherit my kingdom." but the man doesn't care. He rushes over to the flower and takes her in his hands again, gently placing her limp leaves on his palm and caressing her stem with his thumb.

"It will be alright," he whispers as he leaves the room, "You'll be alright."

But the brave little flower does not answer. She does not even open her black eyes.

*

He stands on a balcony overlooking the ocean. The flower in his hands is limp and withered. Her leaves have turned brown and dry and the moon shining down on her does not let her sparkle and gleam, even though he has moved in front of the sun, to see his daughter one last time.

"I'm sorry." the man whispers to her, though he is not sure she can still hear him. "I promised to show you the world, but I only brought you to death. Go home now, go home into the wide bed of the ocean, into the water's cold embrace under the moon's silver blanket. Go home."

He lets go of the flower with these final words and she sails down from the cliff, hardly more than a leave in the wind.

"Come with me!" she calls out to him with the last bit of her strength and the wind whispers her words to him. "Come, come to my father's realm, come."

There is nothing left for him in this castle. All his hope died with the flower, his future with the princess' cruelty, and so he follows her into the depth of the silver waves.

Cold hands of seaweed embrace him and pull him down, deep, deep into the waters, where no light reaches, neither the sun's nor the moon's.

But he doesn't fall forever, for other hands grip him and pull him up, green and silver, and black eyes look deep into his, while silver hair drifts on the waves.

Together they break through the surface again into the light of the moon, the flower now gently holding the man, as he held her for all this time.

And it is the flower who prays to the moon this time: "Take him, take us both, father, take us to your realm, for he is good."

And again the moon obliges. On silver rays he comes from the sky, stirring the waters in his path, that dress him in wave and storm. "Come," he says to the man, "Come, join hands with my daughter. One princess rejected you, as she rejected my daughter. One kingdom was lost to you. But another princess has fallen in love with you and another kingdom awaits. One that rules over the night."

*

And it is said that he was not the only one to ever find one of moon's flowers and not the only one who joined them in their realm. And when you look up at the sky, you can still see them sparkling bright in the dark of the night, as thousands and thousands of stars.

Okay, I think I need to dip into your kindness some more. I might be able to finish the story over the weekend, but I'm far from sure. Two more days would be nice.

I guess in a way it was expected when he wasn't around for so long after being so active before.

I can't say I knew Slasher well. I played a couple of his games, and enjoyed them overall. There are still so many left to try, but it would have been nice to get a couple hundred more from Slasher. He was so full of ideas, he brought so many stories to the screen.

RIP Slasher. You'll be missed.

I'd gotten my maths a bit wrong so have changed the deadline date to the 18th (not 20th).

Wait, wait, wait!    You can't just steal two days, I was counting on them. (Especially because I have little time to write and might not even finish with the two additional days.)

Other than that, I have an idea and a beginning, and the longer I think about the idea, the less it has to do with the topic.

I really seem to have missed this - or rather, I understood it differently than it was meant. I understood it to mean that you do not know who this Philip person is, as in, you don't know him personally and also don't know what his online name might be. I did not understand it as Philip and the sender of the e-mail to be different people.