Creative Corner

Deadline is extended another day.

The stars gazed down coldly upon the young acolyte, the wind whipping around his hunched-over shoulders, seeming to rush straight through his lean frame. He shivered, hesitating, stealing nervous glances at the cave entrance to his right, the towering overhang of cold rock, moss and lichen growing in so much abundance as to nearly obscure the dark hole. It must have been well past midnight, but he couldn't take the leap.
And it was a leap, both literally and metaphorically. A leap of faith, a leap into darkness--in the end it all led to the same place. The other acolytes had already headed inside, armed with nothing but their faith. The young man, however, could not--like them, he'd heard the whispers, the voices, promising great power and great honor, if only he made it through the labyrinthine maze of tunnels to the crystal caves.
Everyone knew of the crystal caves, of course--no storyteller neglected to tell about them, no mother didn't warn their child to stay away, no youth didn't play games, pretended to explore the caves' dark depths. Rumor had it that there were so many crystals that even a sliver of light would be magnified enough to fill the vast space, that just one crystal would feed a family well for a year, so luminous and perfectly-formed were they.
But there was a reason no one dared to go down there, even if it meant fortune and prosperity. The King's Mages--after they had turned on the king, of course--were said to have taken refuge in the crystal caves, and though that had been centuries ago, the stories had always said that the most powerful mages were near-immortal. Mages were not people anyone wanted to mess with.
Now, he supposed he would find out. He sighed, looking back up at the night sky, wondering if he'd ever see them again. The whispers had sought him out, and as abstract as they sounded, their message was clear. It wasn't like he had a good life, or family who would miss him, but still he hesitated, just a bit, before slipping down underneath the overhang, shuddering as the curtain of lichen hit him in the face.
He landed with a soft thump on the hard-packed dirt, only belatedly noticing the flickering light of a torch set on a wall nearby. Clearly someone was down here--did that mean the whispers he heard were actually real, something concrete to be believed in, and not just a wild trick of the imagination? He took the torch, raising it high to see better down the long tunnel, which still wasn't very much. Still, he could just faintly see where it divided, into several different paths.
That alone was more concerning; the simple worry of getting lost was much easier for his mind to grasp than the prospect that he might just meet the mages of legend, the rebels and renegades who'd thrown off the king's control in order to use their magic as they wished. He shook off the thought, however, noting that a few of the tunnels' floors seemed to be more packed down than the others, hopefully indicating the right path.
He headed left, then right, then right again, and another left, always choosing whichever tunnel seemed to be the most used. At one point the tunnel was filled with water, making him nearly lose his footing, his sudden imbalance causing the torch's flame to be doused in the cold liquid.
Thankfully though, at the end of the next, oddly short, tunnel, he caught a glimpse of light out of the corner of his eye, and he hurried to find its source. Occasionally moonlight had filtered in from above, but the last patch had been some time ago. Down here, light was everything, life and salvation and sanity.
His foot nearly slipped over an edge, and only quick reflexes saved him, a shower of rocks cascading downward in a miniature version of an avalanche. He stopped moving altogether, waiting to regain his senses and calm his racing heart. Cautiously he step-hopped to the right, testing each patch of ground before he put his full weight on it. The ledge was steep, but at least it was solid footing, and after ten or so minutes of slow walking it began to level out.
Once he was quite certain that a fall was not in his immediate future, he chanced a look around, then looked again. The cavern below him was filled with light, as far as he could see, so bright that he had to shut his eyes after the near-darkness of the tunnels. When his eyes adjusted, he saw the crystals, flooding the space, reflecting off so much light that he though daylight would be dim compared to this.
In a way, making the next move was even harder than entering the cave entrance above. Then, he had only faith to rely on--now, he knew for certain that the crystal caves were real, and maybe even the legendary mages. The young man continued the descent, bracing himself for whatever was going to come next.

@Mypilot

He heard whispers in the dark.

He had been wandering these endless tunnels, endlessly. Water echoed distantly down the dank, grimy stone walls. Soil broke through the ceilings, the salvation of sun -er, star - mere feet above the catacomb of bedrock he wandered through.

These were a piece of history. His people, once called Xion9-humans, had retreated to these tunnels in the Great War, when something great, terrible, and unnamed had forced them into the depths. The stone shone dully in the near-darkness he had grown accustomed to. These tunnels extended down for miles.

He was no longer sure whether his ears could be trusted. He had heard singing in the broken, crumbling cities, echoing hauntingly against the great vaulted ceilings speckled with gems rarer than diamonds. He had heard ominous growls and wild roars in the deep, where no life was supposed to tread. He had heard laughter coming from tunnels that had looped around to where he had entered them, where there had been no sign that exit had been there before.

Since they had arrived, it had been a strange planet. They had found signs of native civilizations - works too precise to be formed by any force accounted for in the region, strange markings left that the xenographers could only conclude were language, scratching their heads as to how or by whom they could have been left.

A stiff, stale wind ruffled past him, carrying the scent - er, sound - of whispers. There were several layers of harmony in the voices - hissing, sibilant. He turned to the right, following them.

Time entered an abstract, liminal period - so focused was he on the voices, the tunnels, the one aspect of the here and now that he lost his hold on the existence he so intently grasped. A shudder ran up his leg as he misstepped. He fell to his knees with exhaustion. Where am I? What am I doing? Who am I? It was no spell-like, enchanted state - it was an experience all-too-real, unsettlingly so. Craning his neck back, he could see with his darkening eyes a long, gentle rise, sloping away into the distance.

Limbs shaking, he lowered himself to the stone. He could hear several voices, more clearly now. He didn't understand what they were saying, but they comforted him, their sentences short and abrupt, their words long and lilting.

He was so tired. He wondered if anyone would ever find him. He wondered what his people had fled from. It seems the planet itself was singing a lullaby, stealing the last flashes of thought slowly away...

Maybe his people had fled the wrong way? The whispers were fading.

@Karika - This was so poetic and mysterious! I loved how many questions were raised within the story, and how welcomed they were by the unknown plot the story presented. I'd love to know what happens next, but at the same time I'm content in never knowing. =D

@Skyeset - This was a wonderful story! I loved how much you packed into it, adding neat details about a history of this unknown kingdom. This story is so well written, I can actually imagine it being a published story!

@lessthan3 - Oooo, I loved this story! The ending was so sad, why must you always do this to me. ;v; But honestly? This might be my favourite piece you've written. If it was a full story, I'd definitely buy it. That last paragraph + line was beautiful.

The winner is lessthan3 with the runner up being Karika!

Aw thanks!!

Next prompt: If demons are just fallen angels, then what are fallen gods?

Words: Wind, flight, sorrow, terror, morality, quiet, destruction, grey, unending, soul

@Sillywinter @SamIamLuvDov @humanityxpeople @Karika @Annalynn @Zodiac753 @SolusPrime379 @Lightshadow101 @demonslayr62 @Chrisondra @Mypilot @lessthan3 @PixieKnight3264 @coyearth @SocialBookWorm @MintyDragon @Kiradog234

UGH THAT'S RIGHT I NEED A DEATHLINE

deathline is October 1 23:59 bai

@lessthan3

deadline :)?

@lessthan3

The demons fell from the sky in a wave of sorrow that swept the land. The humans remember it as a night of beauty, where stars shot across their vision, dancing in their quiet way. But long before the angels fell and their minds became twisted, there was another power that forced the world to hold its breath, and took it to the brink of wanton destruction. That was the day that the gods fell.

The wind blew gales that day, and the earth tremored beneath the feet of humans that cowered in terror below. It was as if nature herself had risen up to smite the wicked gods who had preyed on the weak, and she dragged them all down unto her hellish embrace, pressing them against her very soul.

We call fallen angels demons, and fear them rising from beneath us on days when the last of the hope takes flight. We've given them an apocalypse to command when that day has come. But demons can only have the freedom to rule this land when the gods themselves are cast out, and that was done at our own fault.

Now the gods are broken, shattered below us by our sick sense of morality. We thought that we had known better than them, but we were wrong. There are new islands that float in our seas now, that were never there before. They are the bodies of the ones we once worshipped, their deaths a grey spot on our ever-darkening history.

When the demons do rise up against us and there are no gods to smite them back down, we will know that it is our own fault. We doomed ourselves into an unending hell on earth, because we doubted the judgement of our creators, and judged them in turn.

Judged them unworthy of our love, our trust, our belief in them. Without our worship, they could survive no longer as the ones who deserved our love. It was us that killed the gods, damned them to the wrath of nature herself. They fell long before the angels did, but there were no stars that night, and so no one remembers their tale.

If demons are just fallen angels, then what are fallen gods?

Even Lucifer, the greatest and most feared of all of the denizens of hell, was only a fallen angel. To him belonged all evil, all destruction, all chaos--and he only a fallen angel, a messenger and a servant. If such power can be commanded by a fallen angel--albeit one of the greatest angels, and the greatest demon--then what more can a fallen god be?

To demons belong terror, the corruption of the soul, and all that can be considered pure evil. But, they are only rarely said to have any direct control over humanity--they can coax and guide, seduce and tantalize, urge and encourage, but they do not seem to have much power to force a human to follow their wishes and obey their demands. No, in the end it is always the human's choice, no matter how unclear and indistinct that choice may be.

So, if demons cannot make humans directly bend to their will, then can a fallen god, something so great and terrible that it has no name? Perhaps, perhaps not. A god is just about the most powerful thing we humans can ever truly know--if a god's allegiance were to be changed from good to evil, then would that fall not have so great an impact as to not only shatter the ground below, but plunge the world itself into some unending void, all voices replaced with a quiet so profound that no one has ever experienced?

But gods have little been described as purely white, purely good. Capital-G God, yes, but gods... no. They are not, cannot, be said to reside on the side of light, but neither do they belong to evil. Gods are in that murky grey area, the same to which humans belong, but caring less about morality than humans. So, then, can gods even fall?

Gods can certainly die--we know that for certain--but can they fall, when they do not belong solely to Light? If they can, it will be a great sorrow when it occurs, for almost certainly this will destroy all things. Perhaps gods have fallen in other times, in other places, in other universes, and thus those other times and places and universes are gone forever, but if so, we can never have any evidence to say how and why the god fell, perhaps with a literal event to go along with the metaphorical, wind streaming past the god as he/she descends. Flight, if such a thing were ever to happen, surely would not be successful--how would someone be able to escape the death of an entire world?--but how are we to know for certain, lacking concrete knowledge?

However, a new theory has been developed recently, one that may still prove to have disastrous consequences--but compared to The End of Everything, these consequences seem to be much less disastrous. This theory requires a different kind of thinking, though--part of the reason why, currently, it is not widely accepted, because it seems so outlandish. But, really, it is perfectly acceptable.

Instead of thinking about a fallen god in terms of light to dark, what about if a fallen god loses his or her power, his or her "essence"--whatever it is that makes a god, a god? This theory seems to be perfectly sound--falling can mean a loss of morality as well as a loss of stature.

So, if we take "falling" to mean a loss of stature, of power--then couldn't fallen gods simply be... human?

@lessthan3

TW for slight blood mention

In the small town, there was three options: sleep, gas, alcohol. The gas station didn’t even have a shop for cigarettes, and the bar didn’t even have rum. It was enough.

The man’s name was Mr. Frank, and this was not his real name. This town, in fact, was not where he was really from. But it had a bed for sleeping, gas for driving, and alcohol for surviving. It was enough. In time, Mr. Frank might be encouraged to find another town to haunt, but, in the meantime, it was good enough to get by. And he’s had quite enough experiences with busy cities and quiet towns.

In reality, the town couldn’t even be considered a town. Perhaps that was why Mr. Frank decided to live there. (Again, ‘live there’ might not be the best choice of words.) It held barely 1,000 people—Mr. Frank recalled reading somewhere that a proper town had over 1,000 people—and the shops closed at eight. The buildings here were quite sad to look at, too; they didn’t offer much of a view and the windows didn’t bring much light into the rooms. Not that Mr. Frank needed much light; he was quite capable without it.

It was at the motel that Mr. Frank spent most of his time. He didn’t sleep very much at all, but he did listen. He was rather good at listening, and had a habit of doing it even before he began staying in the town. The morality of eavesdropping was not something he cared to debate, and he promptly ignored any distasteful looks shot his way for his hobby.

The truth was, Mr. Frank was looking for someone. Something? It was hard to say these days, as the times continued to change. Mr. Frank knew that, at some point, the thing he was looking for would appear in the town. And then perhaps the real terror would begin.

The walls of the motel were thin, and in the rooms people could hear the wind beating against the windows. While the flat fields that surrounded the town were unending, the wind usually quieted in the midnight hours. It was then that Mr. Frank truly listened, for it was in the midnight hours that things became interesting.

The Wednesday night that Mr. Frank heard the window break was the first night that things turned interesting in the town. From his room, he unlocked the door and stepped soundlessly outside. The parking lot was empty, only a few cars taking up the slots, and the windows were all drawn and dark.

All except one.

Mr. Frank moved towards room 102 with all the speed of a wind gale. His strides were long and sure, and he reached the door just as the scream sounded. He had the door open, lock busted, before the woman inside even finished her shout of fear.

Already, the destruction of the room was steep. The window had blown inwards, and glass glittered on the floor. The resident of the room cowered on her bed, blanket shielding her face from the whirlwind of glass.

In the center of the room were the wings.

They were in full flight, still pristine and white. Where the wings would have met the backside, they were red and bloodied. Where before they’d been hovering in the room, now they twitched and writhed, set off by Mr. Frank’s presence. He couldn’t help but grin.

Mr. Frank raised his hand, and curled his fingers inward in a ‘come forward’ gesture. The wings remained in the center of the room, as if fighting some invisible force pulling them forward, but that didn’t matter. Wisps of white drew out of the wings, bright and vibrant and wholly there. As the wisps merged into a ball, the wings seemed to weaken and falter, their colour seeping out until the feathers were grey and plain. At last, the soul of the wings fused together into a small, round orb.

Mr. Frank stepped forward, grin still on his face, and embraced the soul. A flurry of emotions entered him, the strongest being a piercing sorrow. Not his, but still palpable. No doubt the angel Mr. Frank had culled these wings from had felt the last severing of the bond. And no doubt that angel felt the clouds slip out from under their feet, and felt themselves begin to fall.

When the light left the room and the wings turned to ash, Mr. Frank tidied up the cuffs of his suit and left the room as he came. The door clicked shut behind him, and he returned to his own room. Before the sun began to rise, he was already out and on the road. Headed towards the next town, towards the next pair of lost wings.

Small towns only allowed for three options, but Mr. Frank had his own secret fourth option. He would eat away at the souls of the angels, steal away with their wings, and he would rise into the heavens once more. A fallen god, no longer.

Extending the deathline to oct 2 at rollover for

@Mypilot @Chrisondra @After @humanityxpeople @Synzia

and any others who would like to but have been busy with fest/new gene