Art and poetry are not the first things that come to mind when you think of fighter pilots. And it's true you won't find many fighter pilots given to producing them. The image of fighter pilots as jocks, steeped in patriotic pride and locked into a military mindset, is a hard one to shake. But the art and poetry are still there, hidden in the soul rather than openly on the sleeve.

Derius Bard hesitated as he drew his sword. He looked at the shining metal of the blade, the slight curve to the single-edged blade distorting his reflection slightly; Derius' dark hair and sunglasses became a wavy doppelganger of reality. He looked down at the sword handle, his one hand wrapped around it; carved from the whitest ivory into the form of a rose stem and culminating in the pommel, shaped as the petals of the yet to bloom flower.

A hangover is just as painful for a fairy as it is for
anybody else.

Her name was Mugwort and she had thought the school library
was the perfect place for a Christmas party because what
mortal would be hanging around a school library at
Christmas? But the calendar on the table said February.
Crap!

"Good your early. " Izzac's voice resonated around the clearing they were in. His rustic voice gave no hint to the tender soul he harbored. It was he who took Jack in off the streets ten years earlier.

"Take off your clothes. Syanya will wipe you down and then you can get into the SUIT." He lowered the pack he was carrying and handed a couple of towels to Syanya. She stood silently with her beet red face and tried not to look at Jack as he stripped.

The fact is I haven't got a clue. I'm well and truly lost in this stupid maze and I've only got another twenty minutes to get out. I wish I'd never taken up the challenge. Keep going left someone once told me and you can't go wrong. All very well but it doesn't seem to be working. I've been this way before and it's starting to get dark. Soon the moon will be up and who knows what might be lurking out there watching my every move.

The shop had some barmy paintings on the walls, along with magical decorations and peculiar tools. Esbamoal, slowly preening his greyish beard, was attending at his own businness when, all in a sudden, a man of about thirty threw open the front door and stepped forwards. Taller than him, garbed in brown, his reddy hair let down, on the wide garment the well known pattern of the Black Order of the Town Mages. Without doubt, he was Bharclow The Enchanter, the fearful academician all the magical shopkeepers knew about.

I clawed at the stone ledge, breaking my fingernails and drawing blood. An animal instinct for survival consumed me, and I desperately groped for a handhold to hoist myself up with and elude the pursuing beast. Elated, I found the crevice for which I had been searching, and crammed my fingers into it. With a deep breath, I ignored the pain and hauled myself up, swinging my legs astride the wall's crest.

Salome sat at the end of her bed in the dark, released a long breath. Her hand slipped from her leg to the sheets beside her, her fingers making small circles over the silk. The door opened quietly behind her, but she didn't bother to open her eyes. She released another long breath.

Job shut the door behind him before looking at the woman at the end of her bed. Her back was to him, but even that couldn't hide the fact that she was beautiful. Her straight black hair hung down her back, stopping just above her waist. Even in the moonlight her hair looked too dark for her. Her shoulders were pale, almost blue in the light, looking nearly the same color as the thin white nightgown she wore.

My parachute mushrooms in the wind, dragging me ever so slightly back and stirring my eyes open to a squint. There I see the parachute like a frantic jellyfish, swelling and contracting in the breeze with its tentacles caught on my back. It’s that tug and pull that wakes me up, not the random artillery fire, radio transmissions or the Chinese distress calls blaring across the city but that glance at a metaphor.

Momentous and historic occasions mark the individual in such a fashion that the person will often remember where they were and what they were doing at the time of the important event. This was the case on December 1st, 2012, with one Roger Merriman, a food service worker who had driven home during his lunch hour to heat up a can of vegetable soup. Religiously, he followed his usual workday routine; get home, eat, relax a few, go back to work happy, and as he waited for his small, yet nutritious meal to simmer he buoyantly flipped on the 24/7 news network.

For a moment, Roger wondered if he had the TV on the correct channel, as he observed two strange beings on the screen; both with bulbous heads and large black eyes, the infamous ‘Greys’ of alien folklore. Only one of the extraterrestrials spoke, issuing a very dry and factual monologue which Roger automatically ignored as he scanned the nearby couch and coffee table for evidence of the elusive remote control.

Happy New Year!!


The new year brings us a new contest for January and February 2010.
Our topic for this contest is "The Test".

Who is getting tested, what, how and/or why is all up to you!


1000 word limit.
Contest ends February 15th 2010
As always, good luck and have fun!