cybogoblin

/facepalm Only three entries? Now I feel even worse about not getting something in. Sadly, I've been trying to buy a house and it's been eating up a LOT of time (and, ultimately, for nothing as well - stupid housing market). Oh well, hopefully I'll be back in the groove come September.

I'm in for one more go around on the crazy carousel of creative composition. That site looks great, too. Sanderson is a damn good writer, and I imagine the others are too.

Congrats to all the winners, especially mephiston for winning the special bonus prize.

I thought there was mention of another breach (or breaches) that most of the Ten Thunders organisation was able to use to enter Malifaux without alerting the Guild.

Cheers for the feedback, Mako. This story was a lot more direct than usual. I could have spent some extra time filling it out a little more in the second half, but I decided to keep it concise instead. As for my style, I've been reading the Iron Kingdoms novellettes (@Wyrd: Some Malifaux novellettes would be awesome) and that might be influencing me a little.

cybogoblin - Demonstration of Power It's well under the 1500 word limit, but I still think it's a solid piece.

George lifted the mug to his lips and with a gulp poured the last of the ale it contained down his throat. It was flat and just a little too warm, but he had quickly become accustomed to it. The beer, like most things in New Fairbank was not as good as it was back in Malifaux. The benefit of big city living, he remembered. Still, he wasn’t here for the drink. There was treasure to be had down the crypts, or so people said, and he wanted his share of it. Who knows, if he got enough, he might be able to move back to Malifaux and spend the rest of his days drinking whatever he wanted. He rose and made his way back to the bar for a refill. Placing his mug on the table with one hand, he thrust the other into his pocket, digging for script. After a quick search he realised he was out. He’d spent the last on the drink he’d just finished. Cursing under his breath he turned to leave and almost walked into a man who had appeared beside him. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t see ya there,” George spluttered. “That’s quite alright,” the man replied. He was a few inches taller than George and dressed in a full length duster, fairly typical attire for a town like this. There was one feature that made him stand out, however. The right sleeve of the jacket was folded up and stitched in place, signifying that the arm had been amputated above the elbow, judging by the length. George realised that he was staring and snapped his eyes back up to look the man in the face. “Didn’t mean to stare, I-“ “Don’t worry about it. I lost it years ago in a mining accident, so I’m used to the looks. You’d think people would be used to it in a place like this.” He paused and looked around the bar. Nosy patrons hurriedly turned their heads back to their mugs and conversations. “Tell you what; you can make it up to me by helping me with something,” he continued, smiling. “It won’t take a minute, and the next round is on me. What do you say?” “What did you have in mind,” George asked, his thirst tempered by caution. “I’d like your help testing something I found down the Crypts, not exactly sure how it works yet. Let’s head out back and do it there, don’t want someone stealing it off me.” George nodded in acceptance and the pair walked through the bar and out into the alley that ran behind it. It was empty, save for a few crates and a discarded bottle. The man looked around and gestured to the bottle. “Alright, I want you to break the end off that and try attacking me. I’ll use my new toy to defend myself.” George was confused. As far as he could tell, the man was not armed in any way, nor was he wearing any visible armour or a talisman or trinket that might confer a magical advantage. Shrugging it off, he picked up the bottle, broke its base against one of the crates, and adopted an aggressive stance. In response, the man calmly backed up and, with his left hand, undid the buttons on his duster, letting it hang open. “Are you sure you want to do this,” George asked. “Quite sure,” the man replied smiling, beckoning him to attack. Nodding solemnly, George tightened his grip on the bottle and began to move towards the man. He had closed half the distance between them when the man reacted. Rolling his shoulders back he shrugged off his duster revealing a dirty white shirt. Its right sleeve has torn off at the shoulder, leaving what was left of the man’s right arm exposed. But it wasn’t just an arm the duster concealed. Grey tentacles sprouted from pulsating mass attached to the man’s stump, curling up around what remained of his arm. As George closed the last few feet between them, the man lifted his arm and pointed straight at him. Before he could react, the tentacles unwound themselves and shot out towards George’s head. One tentacle grasped him around the jaw, holding it shut. Two more coiled themselves around his neck. The last tentacle waited. In a wild-eyed panic, George bought his bottle-holding hand up to slash at the tentacles gripping his face. As he did, the fourth tentacle shot out and wrapped itself around his hand, holding it firmly in place. George kept struggling, but the tentacles held fast. As he did, a wicked smile crept across the one-armed man’s face. Not the friendly smile he’d used back in the bar, but a sinister grin. The sort you would see on a predator as it hunted its prey. It wasn’t long before the tentacles began to tighten their grip on George’s throat, slowly crushing his windpipe. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, staring at the one-armed man, silently pleading for mercy. In response, the tentacles flexed and finished the job. They released their grip on George’s head and hand, allowing his corpse to slump to the ground. The one-armed man knelt and picked up his duster as the tentacles wrapped themselves back around his stump. He donned the coat and walked over to George’s body, nudging it with his foot. When he was certain that he was dead, he looked at his right arm, hidden again by his duster, and smiled. “Yes, I think this will work quite well,” he said to himself as he turned and walked away.

Ideas are already forming. I'm in

Woah, wait, what? If it helps any, I did get my entry in a little late, so I'm happy to be bumped down to second place. Congrats to all the winners, and well done to everyone involved. It's always entertaining reading Iron Quill entries and seeing each authors interpretation of the ingredients.

It's late and a touch long, but here it is anyway: Unexpected Treasure

This is a little late and slightly over the word limit, but I figured I'd share it anyway... ******************** Garrett was enjoying a quiet drink alone one night when a well-built man approached him. “This seat taken?” the man asked. Garrett lazily gestured for him to sit. They sat in silence for a moment before the man finally spoke. “You mind if I tell you something. I’ve got a problem and need some advice. Problem is, it’s a little sensitive. Can you keep a secret?” Garrett was a little shocked by the man’s forwardness. “Umm... sure, I guess.” “Tell you what,” the man continued, “how about I freshen your drink in return.” He gestured to one of the bar girls. “Well, if you put it like that.” The drink arrived as the man began to tell his story. Earlier that day, he had led a small group of men to some ruins outside of the city. Rumours were it was the location of a secret cache of riches and other treasure. The only reason it had not yet been plundered was due to a series of traps that protected the only known entrance. He and his men had attempted to either disarm or bypass the traps, but had been less than successful. In the end, he was the only survivor. Garrett listened, enthralled by the story. When it was done he finally spoke. “Why are you telling me all this?” “Tell the truth, I have nobody else to tell. Those dead men were the only people I knew in this godforsaken town.” “So are you going back? Hiring more men and trying again?” The man laughed, “Not if I had a hundred men do I think I could break through those traps. Who, or whatever, built them was just too good.” “Well, that’s a shame,” Garrett said. “Still, at least the odds are good it will still be waiting for you should you get enough help.” “There is that!” Both men laughed and clinked their mugs before parting ways. Early the next morning, Garrett quietly left the town, heading for the spot described by the man the night before. After a few hours of walking, he found himself in front of a non-descript mound. One end had been heavily excavated, revealing a narrow passage that led down into its centre. Reaching into the bag he had bought with him, Garrett produced a lantern and a long-bladed knife. Lighting the lantern, he headed into the passage with his knife at the ready. It didn’t take long before he came across the first body, a series of small wooden stakes protruding from his abdomen. From the way his face was twisted, Garrett guessed they had been tipped with poison, causing an excruciating death. Taking the time to check for other hidden triggers, Garrett made his way more slowly down the passage. He prodded at anything suspicious, taking the time to make sure an area was clear before moving on. Further down the passage he discovered more bodies, each man having met his end in a way more gruesome than the last. He was about to give up all hope of reaching the prize when he turned a corner and found himself in front of a large stone doorway. Piled up in front of the doorway were the bodies of a half dozen men, slashed across their necks by some hidden blade. Stopping a few feet short of the door, Garrett turned his attention to the surrounding walls. He used the blade of his knife to feel for any grooves that might conceal the hidden weapon, but there was nothing to find. Having to resort to less savoury means, Garrett crept forward, keeping low, and dragged one of the bodies away from the door. Propping it back up on his feet, he carried it back towards the door, inch by inch. He was less than six inches from the door when a blade shot out from within the door itself. It slashed from left to right, barely missing the body. With the trap revealed, Garrett dropped the body as respectfully as possible. Moving to the side of the passage, he edged his way around the bodies towards the edge of the trap. Staying low, he fetched a knife from one of the bodies and wedged it into barely visible slot that concealed the blade. To be safe, he fetched two more knives and added them to the first. Finally assured that the trap had been properly disabled, Garrett examined the rest of the door. It was covered in intricate carvings, possibly hieroglyphs, but nothing that betrayed how Garrett could get it open. After a few minutes of poking and pushing, movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He had accidentally bumped his lantern and it was now shining on the body he had moved earlier. The hem of the man’s shirt was moving, as if being blown by some invisible wind. Moving over to the body, Garrett placed his hand next to the fluttering shirt. Sure enough, there was a faint breeze. Moving his hand towards the source of the wind, he eventually found himself facing the wall of the passage. Fetching his lantern, he could see a tiny crack running along the point where the floor met the wall. Placing the blade of his knife into the crack, he ran it to one side as far as it could go. He then withdrew his knife and felt around for a corresponding vertical gap. Sure enough, there was one. A short while later Garrett had exposed the outline of the true doorway to the treasure chamber, cleverly hidden within the wall of the passage. Pushing on the door it silently slid inwards, revealing a room that might not have been seen by mortal eyes for centuries. Walking inside with his lantern held high, Garrett realised that the fabled treasure what not nearly as impressive as he had been led to believe. He had expected piles of gold and jewels, but instead was presented with what looked more like an ancient library. Shelves lined the walls, each filled with scrolls. In the centre of the room was a large casket, not long enough to be a coffin; at least, not for a human. Moving into the centre of the room, Garrett paid closer attention to the casket. It appeared to be carved out of stone, but not the same stone used in the construction of the false door. The side of the lid facing the door featured more carvings like those on the false door, equally incomprehensible to his eyes. He was about to try opening the lid when he heard a sound behind him. Worried he had missed a trap, he turned quickly to discover the man he had talked to the night before. “So nice of you to open the door for me, I knew I could count on your curiosity and for you to be discrete.” “But, what? How?” Garrett was shocked, starting to wonder if he’d just been used to open the door. “Don’t worry, I knew you’d come here,” the man continued as he walked into the room. “Why do you think I told you so much? I was hoping you would succeed where my men had failed.” “Good to know I didn’t disappoint then, I guess.” Garrett knew he was in trouble. All he had was his knife and this man was cleared armed with a pistol. “Not exactly the treasure you were hoping for, is it?” “I wouldn’t say that.” The man walked over to one of the shelves, “These scrolls will fetch a high price, to the right bidder. Who knows what secrets are contained within this room.” “And the casket?” “That is a mystery. The map I found made no mention of it. Why don’t you be a pal and open it and see what’s inside.” He drew his pistol but kept it by his side. “I’ve opened every other door for you,” Garrett said, “what’s one more.” He gave a lid a shove, but nothing happened. Next, he tried lifting it, but it was far heavier than he expected. “Looks like you might need to give me a hand with this one.” Annoyed that he might have to get his hands dirty after all, the man put his pistol back in the holster and joined Garrett at the casket. “Right then, on three. One, two...” They lifted together, finally moving the stone lid. Seeing an opportunity, Garrett only lifted his end a little. As the man lifted his end, there was a groaning sound and a blast of dust hit him in the face. He dropped the lid and staggered backwards, clutching his face. He pulled his hands away and Garrett could see that his skin had been eaten away, exposing his flesh and bones. Letting go of his end, Garrett walked over to the now incapacitated man. “When will people learn, there’s always another trap.” After collecting the man’s gun, Garrett perused the scrolls on the shelves. They certainly were a treasure. ******************** Ingredients used: Theme: How to keep a secret Item: Casket I'd appreciate any comments or criticism people might have. I always wonder what people think, but always forget to ask.

I'm in as well. I do need something to do over Easter weekend.

Sadly, I've also decided to drop from this round. Real world factors (dang Yahoo!) conspired against me and robbed me of my free time. Let's just say that working on the weekend is not fun. Next month, though.

Damnit, you used Muppets. I'm in.

The first recorded instance of 'space marine' is in the mid-30's, so good luck with defending this lawsuit, GW /facepalm While we're looking at alternate names, how about Astral Janissaries? Sidereal Guerillas?

Congrats to all the winners. Sadly, time got away from me last week and I didn't have the time to read all of the entries this time around. Looking forward to the next round.

Haven't had a read through yet, but you're already getting style points for the title

Just posted my mostly finished entry: Ultimatum

Mission Report Date of Events........: 7 October, 114 P.F. Location................: Quarantine Zone, Sector 11 Agent(s) Present.....: Mr Glass Mission Result.........: Partial Success After three days of “questioning” locals, I received the location of the sanctum of Michel Ardan, Arcanist inventor. Located deep in the Quarantine Zone north-west of Southgate Station, in the basement of a ruined building. The building was only lightly guarded, three lackeys at most. I quickly dispatched them before entering the building. Aside from the guards, the building was otherwise deserted. Locating the stairs to the basement, I descended into Ardan’s sanctum. As predicted, it was the size of a small warehouse, carved out of the rock underneath the building. Ardan’s latest creation lay in the far corner, partly covered by tarpaulin, where he was working on what I later learned was its engine. Off to one side lay the crates of stolen soulstones, one of which was open revealing its opalescent contents. I took two steps into the sanctum and announced my presence. ~~~~~ “Ahem.” The Arcanist jumped at the sudden noise, his head colliding with the creation’s outer casing. “What the bloody hell do you want?” He turned to face Glass, “you’re supposed to be watch- Oh! Who are you?” “Who I am is not important. Why I am here, however, should be of great interest to you.” Glass remained still, watching the Ardan’s every movement. “I have come with an offer from the Guild.” “The Guild? Why should I even entertain an offer from those totalitarian thugs? They condemned me for my talents,” he glanced at the nearest crate of soulstone, “wanted to hang me from the tree, and for what? My magical ability, that’s all. I’m no worse than any of the other spell casters who have sold their souls and thrown in with them.” Glass produced a notebook from his coat pocket and began to read: “Two counts of manslaughter, one count of grievous bodily harm, three counts of producing prohibited magical effects.” He glanced up as he read. Ardan was becoming increasingly nervous, he would have to watch for any sudden movement. Placing the notebook back in his pocket, he continued, “Add to that three counts of major theft and you are in some serious trouble.” “Very clever,” Ardan replied, “so there were a few accidents. That always happens when you’re trying to push the boundaries of magic and science.” He began fidgeting again, this time reaching into his trouser pocket as he did so. “If you think I’m coming anywhere with you, you’re even stupider than you look! With as much speed as he could muster, Ardan pulled his hand from his pocket revealing what he had searched for - a soulstone. Calling upon the magical energy contained within the stone he raised his other hand and pointed it at Glass. “Now to add murder to my rap sheet.” Glass remained perfectly still as energy crackled around Ardan’s hand and then shot towards him. It leapt through the air, leaving the smell of ozone in its wake, before slamming into Glass’s chest... and passing right through. Behind him, chunks of stone exploded away from the point where the bolt hit the sanctum’s wall, but these bounced harmlessly off his coat. “But- What- How?” Ardan looked at his hand in disbelief, unsure about what had just happened. He tried again, putting as much magical force as he could muster into the attack. The effect was the same; the bolt passed through Glass and impacted with the wall behind him. Glass interrupted Ardan before he could try a third time. “Careful. Keep that up and you will bring the roof down on us both. With that our of the way, how about I explain the details of the Guild’s offer?” He produced a sheet of paper from within his coat and started to read the details of the offer to Ardan. The Arcanist was far too baffled by what had just happened to understand what he was saying. “What are you,” Ardan interjected. “How did you do that? Some Guild trickery, eh? Tell me!” Glass paused his reading of the offer to respond, “When you passed through the Breach, it awoke within you a latent magical talent. My journey had something of an opposite effect. I do not rightly know what it did, but as you just saw, magic no longer has any power over me. That is why the Guild sent me to deliver this offer. If they had wanted you dead, Criid would be knocking on your door, not me.” Ardan gulped, he had heard about the fate awaiting Arcanists captured alive by Sonia Criid. He had no desire to end up as one of her Witchlings. “Fine, fine. You’ve got me. I’ll come along, just as long as the Guild holds up its end of the bargain and wipe my slate clean.” He knew they wouldn’t, but it was worth a try. “Excellent,” Glass cracked a faint smile, “life is so much easier when people co-operate.” He walked over to Ardan and plucked the soulstone from his hand. As he did, its light faded as the last of the power drained from it. “Now, before I return you to the nearest watch house, one question. What exactly are you building here?” He gestured at the partially obscured machine. “This?” Ardan replied. “This is the culmination of my life’s work.” He walked over to the machine and yanked the tarpaulin away, revealing a large metallic tube with a tapered end, much like a bullet. “This is the machine that will allow me to leave this wretched city, let me explore distant lands and perhaps... other planets” “And the stones; there are more in those crates than most Arcanists would use in a lifetime. Are you using them to power this instrument of freedom?” “Exactly! They’ll give me the power I need, once I have this finished, of course.” Ardan took advantage of the distracted Glass to slowly back towards his work bench and the large spanner that rested on top of it. “It won’t use all of them at once that would be far too wasteful. I had to make this big enough to bring some cargo along with me.” His hand now grasped the spanner. “It truly is an amazing achieve-MENT!” With as much strength as he could muster, Ardan rushed toward Glass, swinging his spanner in an arc towards his head. Spotting the sudden movement in his peripheral vision, Glass ducked to one side, narrowly avoiding the blow. He quickly backed away from Ardan, producing a pistol from a holster at his hip. It was no ordinary pistol, but one that appeared to rely on springs and gears to function, not black powder. It truly was a clockwork marvel. Glass levelled the pistol at Ardan. “Do not take me for a fool, Mr Ardan. We knew you would not be easy to recruit. I offer you one final chance to come with me before I move to Plan B.” “Plan B? You officious oaf! You dare enter an Arcanist’s sanctum, threaten him with death or worse, then expect him to simply comply with your orders?” Ardan spat on the ground between them, “There’s my answer for your masters!” “As you wish,” Glass replied. He pulled the depleted soulstone from his pocket and threw it over to Ardan who caught it. “You should have that back, you will need it.” Before Ardan could respond, Glass pulled the trigger on his pistol. Springs unwound, gears clicked, and the hammer fell into place at high-speed, propelling a single bullet straight into the Arcanist’s chest; killing him instantly. Glass walked over to Ardan’s body and nodded to himself as he saw the soulstone begin to glow again. “Nothing wasted.” ~~~~~ After securing the crates and sealing off the sanctum, I returned to the nearest watch house for reinforcements. We retrieved the crates without further incident and no further loss of property. While I was not able to recruit Michel Ardan, I believe the technology used in his vehicle will be of great interest to Captain Hoffman. I have contacted him directly with directions to the sanctum. End of report. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I managed to include three of the four ingredients (to a greater or lesser degree), the only one missing is the line. I've got about 150 words to spare so I might go back over this and try and work it in there somewhere. UPDATE: After a 10 hour day at work, then another two hours this evening writing my Six Month Performance Review, I'm calling this done.

I've still got another week of enforced holiday before I go back to work, so I'm in.

It's been a weird month for me as well. I would much preferred a Wyrd one, but you take what you get. Here's my entry: Life's Work Conceived, written, and quickly edited in the last couple of hours. I'll take another look at it tomorrow to see if I can polish it up a little more.

Harold Cooke had long been a painter of average skill and minimal talent. He could achieve a decent looking landscape, but only after many hours of arduous work, constantly painting over previous attempts, trying to get the colours and shapes just right. He was not put off by this, however. Each commission was like torture, but he seemed to enjoy it. As if he was proving the world wrong with each completed work; no matter how late he was to turn it in. There were not many painters in Malifaux, which perhaps worked in his favour. Constantly by his side was his doting wife. She kept him fed, mixed his paint, and when the need arose, kept his patrons calm when he inevitably ran behind. It was through her efforts alone that he was able to stay in business, though at times it seemed like it could all fall apart at a moment's notice. It was one of those moments when a man arrived at Harold's door carrying a package addressed to him. The man would not say where it had come from, only that his instructions were to deliver it. Confused, Harold accepted the package and took it inside to inspect its contents. Unwrapping it at the kitchen table, he discovered a painting palette. Fashioned from some unknown material, it seemed to shine in the sunlight. Not in the reflective manner of a mirror, but as if it were absorbing light then projecting it in all directions at once. Taking the palette into his studio, Harold set about loading the new palette up with paint. He had recently received a commission to paint a stately home on the northern edge of Downtown, and had already begun his first attempt at capturing it on canvas. He had already made a sketch of the building, taking in the gross measurements and surrounding features, all that remained was to apply paint. He mixed the colours on his palette, making sure to use the right shades of brown to best recreate the timber of the house. The palette took the paint like any other, but it wasn't until the paint reached the canvas that Harold noticed a difference. Colours seemed more vivid, and his usually haphazard style seemed to have disappeared. For the first time in his life he was painting with ease. The painting was complete in record time, a full two days before it was due. Not once did Harold have to go over or touch up any of his work. His wife, astounded with the speed at which he had worked, begged him to paint her. He had previously not been comfortable painting portraits, his laborious process taxing even the greatest patience. Nevertheless, this new palette and the painting of the stately home had bolstered his confidence. Placing a blank canvas in his easel he set to work. As before, the painting was done in record time. He summoned his wife to his side so they could both admire his work, it was truly magnificent. The painting was so lifelike it would have been difficult to tell the difference between it and his wife. After a celebratory dinner, both Harold and his wife retired for the night. They planned to deliver the painting of the stately home the next morning, then immediately look for new work. Even put an ad in the paper to inform readers of his improved services. They slept soundly, but when Harold awoke the next morning he discovered that he was alone. He did not recall hearing his wife get up in the night, and a quick search of the house confirmed that she was no longer there. Assuming that she had left early to purchase groceries or painting supplies, Harold set about preparing the house painting for delivery. He was in the middle of wrapping the painting when there was a knock at the door. He opened the door on two Guild guards. They were enquiring if he knew anything about a prominent member of the Guild hierarchy. Thinking for a moment, he realised they were referring to the person who had commissioned him to paint their house. He invited the guards inside, showing them the painting and informing them that he was about to deliver it. Asking why they were asking about this case, he was shocked when the guards replied that the house he had painted had vanished overnight; seemingly disappearing into thin air, leaving no rubble or sign of its passing. Furthermore, the occupants had disappeared along with the house. This had concerned many other members of the Guild, including the Governor General. The guards took Harold's painting as evidence and asked him to remain in his house, just in case they had further questions for him. Harold agreed without hesitation, his mind already racing. Could there be a connection between his new-found painting ability and this tragic event? What about this new palette? Could that somehow be causing all this? If only his wife were here, surely she would be able to figure- His wife! A shiver of terror fluttered up Harold's spine. What if whatever happened to the house had happened to his wife as well? Inspecting the portrait, Harold could not detect a single thing that confirmed his suspicions. That was until he looked into his wife's eyes. They seemed more glassy than he remembered painting them, as if she were on the verge of crying. He touched the painting, gingerly, but it did not feel damp. It was if the tears had been painted in deliberately. Still not certain of what was happening, and hoping against hope that his suspicions were not correct, Harold attempted an experiment. He went into the kitchen and gathered up various cooking implements, a frying pan, a selection of cutlery, and a couple of bowls. Taking the items into his studio, he set up two arrangements, each on its own stool. Then, he placed a new canvas in his easel and painted the first arrangement using his old palette. Once it was done, he repeated the process with the second arrangement, but this time used his new palette. As he expected, the second painting looked much more realistic than the first. The metal cutlery even appearing to glint and shine from the canvas. With the two paintings complete, Harold retired to the kitchen, leaving the arrangements in his studio. He made himself some lunch, for the first painting had taken most of the morning to complete. Once he had finished eating, he tidied up and returned to the studio. To his horror his suspicion confirmed. The first arrangement was still there, sitting on its stool, but the second had disappeared, along with its stool. Harold was overcome with grief. His painting had caused the disappearance of not only a house and family, but his dear, sweet wife; the same wife who now smiled at him from her painting, eyes brimming with tears. Overcome with emotion, Harold wept openly, pulling at his hair and offering up prayers and bargains to whichever higher power would answer them for the return of his beloved. When none answered, he realised that there was only one thing he could do. If the guards realised what he had done he'd spend the rest of his days in prison, or worse, swinging from the Hanging Tree, serving as a grim warning to those arriving in Malifaux through the Breach. The only he could imagine that was worse than what he had done was to live with it for the rest of his days. In an act of desperation he placed the painting of his wife back on the easel, loaded up his palette and began painting furiously. He worked late into the evening, and eventually collapsed into bed around midnight. The next morning the Guild guards returned to Harold's house. After receiving no response to their knocking, they forced their way in, discovering the house to be deserted. A thorough search revealed no signs of the previous occupants. All that remained was a magnificent portrait that hung in the studio. A portrait of Harold Cooke holding his easel, and his wife. ******************** Words: 1,366 (give or take) Theme: The power of love Character: Starving Artist (not so starving, but certainly struggling)

I've already got a couple of ideas floating around in me noggin'. Sign me up.

Congrats to all the winners, and special congrats to Mister Monkey. Here I was thinking you were just a pretty face

It was rather difficult picking a top three, let alone ranking them. Great work, and great to see how others interpreted and incorporated the required elements.