10 Minutes to Doom

Each week we give a group of writers just 10 minutes to write a themed piece of fiction. You can read their stories here.

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Mystery #5

This week, our befuddled writers are tasked with writing a scene that conveys mystery

Mystery of Doom #5 by Tom Hagley

Abroskya found it in her sock. A cute slip of muslin wrapped around a shaft of paper. 

She unwrapped it and slapped it down on the small side table near the hearth. "Jorvald?" She shouted, without looking up. "Another one's shown up." A clatter came from the barn door in the back of their cosy under mountain hovel. He gave her a pug-nosed scowl. "I told you to stop messing with that. You'll lose your mind."  Jorvald ambled over and grabbed the parcel from the table and chucked it into the fire. The muslin fibres smouldered away in a flash of flames, the wadge of parchment erupting in yellows and blues, the metallic core refusing burn, sweating like a sizzling eyeball. "Kregwonklers, moi love." He muttered. "They just won't leave us alone." "Well, if you'd just let me read it and do the ritual..." "Then what would happen?" "They'd stop hassling us and we could move out of the hamlet." "What? And go to Cronswan Lake and the Shires of Shrangola" "Why not?" said Abroskya pulled one of the metal burnt husks from her pockets. "It's getting ridiculous. It'd get the parents of our backs." "To you?" Jorvald paused, raising an eyebrow. Staring at the sweating ball of metal in the fireplace. "They'd have to pay us more than that. They'd owe us a mountain."

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Mystery #4

This week, our befuddled writers are tasked with writing a scene that conveys mystery

Mystery of Doom #4 by Mark Danger Ridley

“Oooooh you fricky-doo,” The simple man said, his narrow eyes wide with fright. “You ducky-doo, you done got it now.” “Please. We need to you to relax. You need to take it from the top.” Detective Vrens spoke with tired exasperation.   “Oooooooooh. Ooooooh.” The young man repeated as he writhed his hands together. “I don't know you, no sir I do not. Jenny said don't be talkin' to no strangers 'cos strangers doin you a harm is what Jenny says.” “Jenny won't be doing a whole lot of talking any more.” Detective Wrythe muttered as he fingered through a small stack of forensic photographs.  Detective Vrens leaned forward in his chair, his belly rolled over his knees as as he cleared his throat. “Listen. Tommy. We're just trying to help.” The detective urged, trying to conceal a half-smile.  “Yeah,” Detective Wrythe added. “Jenny, she uh... she said we was supposed to look after you. But you gotta help us out here, kid.”  “Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy. Wowee and then is she gonna come and take me home to mama?” the young man's fragile face cracked into a pitiful smile. He didn't get why the fancy men in their suits were smiling at each other. “Yeah, kid.” Detective Wrythe flicked through the Polaroids in his hand. “She'll be right here.”

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Mystery #3

This week, our befuddled writers are tasked with writing a scene that conveys mystery

Mystery of Doom #3 by Tom Cassady

There wasn't anything left. The sun beat down on the camp, water boiled in the pot, there was a gentle ripple of material whenever the wind whipped up and caught the corner of a tent. There was no-one lef tin the camp, it was dead but what was unsettling were the still sparking embers i the fire. Colonel Benitoff mixed the half burned ashes with the corner of his boot, scuffing them into the ground with a half thought irritation at being brought out here without any sign of the squad of men he has been set to meet. "Any sign of them Sanders?" He called over the the unit's sergeant. The two couldn't have been any more different, Benitoff with his crisp white shirts and Sanders with the fraying scraps of his poking out from the back of his jacket. "No, Sir." we didn't find anything of them, just this" Sanders held up a few unfired rounds of rifle  shells one of his men had found near the river. "There must be something around here somewhere?" Benitoff asked, dismissively. HQ would find out about those mines or it'd be his arse that'd in the fire if he didn't bring back anything. Who cares if the locals said they were haunted.

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Mystery #2

This week, our befuddled writers are tasked with writing a scene that conveys mystery

Mystery of Doom #2 by William C E Fortune

"What in Gart's name is it?" asked the shorter of the pair, his voice distorted by the suit's microphone.

The taller figure, still festooned with his headdress even though he was wearing the suit, turned his visor toward his diminutive companion. 

His voice was hushed, reverent. "I've never seen anything like it before, Tum. Nothing like it.."

The object was bathed in golden sunlight which stabbed into the heart of the cavern like a gleaming sword. 

Tum stepped closer to the bell-like artifact. 

"No!" shouted the short one. "We don't know what it might be." He reached out to his frozen friend and pulled him back. "Or what it might do."

"It's ok, Patar," said Tum. "Looks like it's been here for a hunnit milen or more. If it was ever deadly, it can't be now, after all this time."

Patar thought he heard a question. Tum didn't know. He just wanted to touch it. He wanted to be the first. Be the one the chitren would learn about  in himsocky class a decoam from now. He couldn't let Tum be the first. Patar would be first. His name in the himsocky books. He reached for the klatstick in his utility belt and hit the charge button.

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Mystery #1

This week, our befuddled writers are tasked with writing a scene that conveys mystery

Mystery of Doom #1 by Craig Heap

Stanton Crunch shook his head in dismay and spat on the pavement. Old Phil tottered up the street, his battered brown hat angled against the sun, and paused to look at the scene in front of Stanton. Old Phil shook his own head in mutual dismay.

'Bloody kids, eh. No respec',' Old Phil emphathised. Stanton grunted and stared at the strange mural that had been daubed on the side of his shop, sometime in the brief hours between closing and opening. His shop was rarely closed and the night boy had reported nothing unusual - just the usual drunks and stoners coming in for their cigarettes and Doritos.  'Third time this month,' Stanton growled. He would paint over it again, later.  'Saw the same shape on t' government' buildin's las' week when I was collecting my pension,' Old Phil mused.  They stared at the strange sigil, wondering what purpose it served.  'Gangs, I reckon,' said Phil. Stanton grunted again, and went to sell Old Phil his morning newspaper and tobacco. He painted over it and tried to forget about it. Two weeks later, he saw the same twisted sigil, the paint still fresh on a billboard heading out of town, and then again on the broad side of the steel mill.  It bothered Stanton for reasons he couldn't place. There was an unnerving familiarity to the sign, but it was nothing anyone recognised. Reverse look-up on the internet gave no hits. Literally none. He didn't think that was possible.  Two tourists came in to his shop a day after he had painted over the sign for a fourth time. They carried a map. Stanton smiled wryly, amused at the anachronism, and obligingly pointed out where they needed to go. They were about to leave when he gripped their map and pulled it back. Cold realisation slithered down the back of his neck. He took the pencil from behind his ear and sketched marks showing his shop, the government buildings, the billboard, and the steel mill. The line terminated at the last building on the edge of town, the old church; the one that had closed down after that incident.

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Environment #5

This week, our beleaguered writers had to write a scene that emphasised a location and its environment

Environment of Doom #5 by Tom Hagley

I started in the mud. The glorious mud.

We gagged on the stink of shit and death. But we didn’t care.

The lads jeered beneath the constant rumble of shellfire. Grins spread across gawky laddish mugs. Mugs ready to march. Finally, we were going over the top.

I hooked the crooks of my fingers into the ladder, the splinters drawing a fleck of blood. I turned to Jenkins and gave him a surly slap to the shoulder. “When we reach Berlin, could I get that photo of your handsome wife?”

Jenkins gave me a solid reply, bruising. Our ladders wobbled, the mud squelching beneath. One of the lads coughed, a young one we called Binto – on account of the fact he walked like an old woman – slipped off his ladder and splashed into the puddles.

The whistle blew; the sergeant slapped me on the behind with his baton. “Up n’ at ‘em boys. The Southwold Fisherlads’ll show Jerry who’s boss.”

And we were away, scrabbling through the dirt, poising our rifles, hopping over chunks of barbed wire, grins melting in the tak, tak, tak of the German guns.

Binto was first to flop, his body slapping into a puddle. Then Little Avvy, Nucko, and Mrs Hampton’s Boy. Their bodies slid into shell-holes, sinking into divots.

The sunlight streaked through the drifting smog. The shellfire continued. The sergeant went next, his uniform plastered with fresh red medals of valour. 

He too slapped into the wet.

The guns never got me though. 

I tripped and fell, face slamming on the sandbags near Jerry's trench, my face mangled into the barbed wire.

I ended in the mud. The glorious fucking mud.

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Environment #4

This week, our beleaguered writers had to write a scene that emphasised a location and its environment

Environment of Doom #4 by Craig Heap

Marcus Lime stepped off the moving streetcar and landed in a pile of slush. He grimaced and tugged his fur-lined collar higher about his neck. Above him, a wide rent in the canopy let in snow. It blew in from the Antarctic interior, cold and hard, but soon turned sticky and wet as the myriad sun lamps melted it before it hit the ground. The actual sun, low on the horizon, cast a pale glare through the hole, and up above Marcus saw a patch of white sky. He moved away from the light and toward the narrow, shadowed alleys that ran between the concrete block buildings that dominated Oates Road.  A flash of fire lit up the alleyway, and a warming smell of seared penguin followed it. Marcus savoured the aroma as he passed the vendor, another fire flash dancing with sparks, tempting him to stop for a bowl of something hot to take away the chill the weak sun lamps were failing to ease, but he carried on. Down narrow, winding alleys, packed with trash and traders, until he emerged at the end of an alley opposite an open square. Here, the canopy gave way to a hard dome, and beneath it another, this one older, smaller - the original. The Plaza around the Dome was clean and peaceful; a school trip meandered among the statues erected to the Founders. Marcus eyed up the heavy-coated security patrols as they swaggered by, their brutish chaff guns swinging low in their arms. He turned on the heating element for his own gun and felt the cold block of steel become uncomfortably warm against his body.  He took a step forward when suddenly a hand grabbed his collar and yanked him back into the alley. He felt something sharp press up against his kidney. 

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Environment #3

This week, our beleaguered writers had to write a scene that emphasised a location and its environment

Environment of Doom #3 by William C E Fortune

It's tame," she said, coyly. "You can pet it if you like."

The panther prowled and curled around the elegant ivory legs of their chairs.

The woman's male companion looked between the elegant creature and the deadly woman. "Why have you-"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about the little details right now, Montgomery." The woman spoke in an exotic accent which carried spice and danger.

They sat in the cool shade of a Lambassa tree, its thick rubbery palms giving shelter against the Indian sun. Out beyond the tropical garden and 2000 feet below lay the fertile plains which had made the woman's father so wealthy. Haze rose from the plains and gave the land a magical touch, like the sickly sweet aroma of incense.

"I'm Lady Rosalind," the woman said. Her voice carried an air of dominance of the sort granted only to the sons and daughters of the people who had tamed this land. She reached for silver and glass decanter sitting on a little bone table between their ornate seats. As she poured them each a drink into little copper mugs she flicked a lazy hand out to the horizon. "This is all mine." She was more bored than boastful. "Daddy died and now it's mine."

Montgomery tore his gaze away from her lovely but lethal face and stared out through the haze over the plains below. "I don't have it," he said, all pretence gone. "No one knows where it is." He looked at the little villages dotted far below, their structures blurred and warped by the searing heat. "These people have nothing of yours."

"Not at all true," she siad, half whispering. "They have my land."

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Environment #2

This week, our beleaguered writers had to write a scene that emphasised a location and its environment

Environment of Doom #2 by Mark Danger Ridley

As they approached the clearing the gentle trickle of rain subsided. The blue obsidian pillars which rose out of the ground glistened with a greasy sheen. “Just a little farther,” Converter spoke in a hushed voice as he beckoned the professor to hurry. The old man’s impractical footwear squeaked and slid on the wet slate. The professor fired him an exasperated, angry glance as he awkwardly fumbled with the cases he carried. “Oh my God,” The Catalyst said as she stepped ahead, gliding effortlessly up to the plinth. As she neared the ancient, gnarled stone alter in the centre of the clearing the entire plinth pulsed with white light like a beacon. “I'm home.” She said with a smile.  Converter chased after her, almost losing his footing as he tried to keep pace. He gestured to hurry at the professor who angrily nodded and began to unload the boxes. “There should be somewhere to plug that in over there,” converter pointed to the sheer outer walls that encircled the clearing. Confused, the professor tore his scarf off and threw it aside as he began to unpack and assemble the theremin, mumbling angrily under his breath. Catalyst had sat herself upon the plinth, rubbing her bare legs together and smiling up at the stars with a vacant gawp. “They're beautiful....” she rolled lazily. She allowed the shawl to drop from her shoulders as she traced shapes with her finger. “I've got it!?” the Professor cried, more in surprise than victory. He pushed the 13 amp plug into a natural formation on the rocky surface and the green “standby” light in the theremin lit, minutely. “Are you serious?” The old man glanced in confusion, his eyes tracing the electrical chord running from the instrument into the sheer stone face of the wall. He stood upright and fixed his eyes with Converter. “You are serious, aren't you?”  

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Tulip Fever

A tale of art, beauty, lust, greed, deception and retribution -- set in a refined society ablaze with tulip fever. In 1630s Amsterdam, t...

The Writers of Doom Book Club read this’n and will now give a confusing sequence of numbers to express our feelings about it. Discuss! 9.7 / 80

1.6/10

I,Claudius+10.0

292/3560

74.2/895

0.4 / 2.5

0.2 / 1.25

Final Tally:

0.1 / 0.625 (Not enough Tulips)

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Environment #1

This week, our beleaguered writers had to write a scene that emphasised a location and its environment

Environment of Doom #1 by B C Turner

Do keep up. 

Now as you note the fine marble building has been inspired by the neoclassical period, and therefore, will need attention on the Emperor’s arrival, as a fiercely dependable historian he will not take kindly to unwanted blemishes on his ascension to power.

The rooms are square for a reason, less likely to be ambushes, and also fine places to hang the extravagant art, no the gold braiding around each picture, to be polished until I see my face in them.

Beta group these plants are not uniform attend to them and ensure the carpets are cleaned.

Maxis is in charge of the lighting, I want dimmed lighting to insinuate the passage ways and gentle reflect of the white marble to create a warm atmosphere, not like last week when it resembled my mother’s crypt, screw up like that again and you can join her. 

Now this way to the atrium, see the how the room is angled perfectly to reflect the sound in the semi circular formation.  The choice of a scarlet red is to reflect royalty. Needless to say, the orchestra sits in the pit, and will play the anthem of his exaltedness without a single blemish on neither note nor brass. 

Oh, here we go Mr Curtis, is late everyone say hello to Curtis.

“Hello” 

A singular silver blade was heard scraping out of it s sheath and the swift single cut sliced the Curtis throat.

Mr Curtis was late. He is now dead. You are not going to be late, as you do not want to be dead. Also blood splatter on the scarlet walls will be notable as blood on a virgin's sheet, so what you need to do there my lad is clean it up ok? 

The library is down to the right, everything must be characterised and alphabetised you will have a job as the books range from the floor to the ceiling and if you want that in mathematical terms it is 6.5 kilzots or for you and I lowly mortals, fucking high. Everything is leather bond and must have, yes a shine to it. Brandy is to be placed in the bottle by the Empirical throne and a fire must be burning at all times. No ladies may enter this room and are to be placed in the service chambers provided.  

Service chambers, clean and menstruation free if possible, nice soft things for the ladies to sit on and the usual paraphernalia for the emperor. Nothing must leave this room, all things are kept private here, and those who are lucky to facilitate this chamber will understand why.   

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Sapience #7

This week, our writers had 10 minutes to personify a non-human object in their writing exercise.

Sapience of Doom #7 by Tom Cassady

Theres a meaning to it but he couldn't quite see it; he didn't have the eyes. Nor a brain for that matter. It was something he'd been meaning to get around to but he didn't have a concept of time either so that just went to hell in a handbasket, though it was obvious he didn't have a clue what religion was either, nor weaving for that matter. This thinking nonsense was hard hard when all you have to run together were grains of mince. But there was something horrible and disturbing he felt gradually seeping into his soul. There was a melange of spice tickling the back of what he might've called a throat as beans fell through his body, enfusing him with a sense that he had never truly bean, nor ever would truly be. Gelantineous thought fermented in unappetising ways as the mince man gently cooke under the growing knowledge he'd come out wrong. "But surely he thought, surely I can't carne, I'm too zesty. There's a meaty treaty I made with myself as soon as I came alive a few minutes ago. I swore I'd join my Bolonge brothers. The once uddered transformed into heavenly surpass and go the the place that we post-bovine call 'cow-vala'?" Just then, the odor of rice cut through those thoughts of paradise like a hot knife through dead flesh and ground the poor mince-mans dreams to gristle and dread. "BUT, the only real accompanyment to Bolognase is Spagetti?" The horror has set in

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Sapience #6

This week, our writers had 10 minutes to personify a non-human object in their writing exercise.

Sapience of Doom #6 by Mark Danger Ridley

“Its no good,” Risky Click gasped as she blew the sweat pooling on her nose. “They have us on the ropes.” “I agree” Sassy Malone spat as she pulled the gum shield from her mouth. “These guys are shit-hot. We can't touch them.” “This is demeaning.” Coach Mandible. “The Huddersfield SwampHags haven't lost a Derby bout in over a year. If we don't pull this back...”    “Yeah were fucked.” Risky Clicks agreed. She could feel an angry tear well in here eye. “Not yet!” A small voice from beyond the huddle declared. “We have our ace in the hole.” Every turned to see Wee Niplet, doused in engine oil unzipping her gym bag. The pitch lights danced devilishly on the iron filings caked to her sweaty face.  “Do you mean...?” Coach Madible leaned forwards with a curious smile.  Wee Niplet began to tub at the cumbersome metal object inside the bag, which had began to whir and fuzz to life. The contraption unfurled itself, revealing the slender athletic body of her latest machination. The itnernal difference engine whirred and clicked to life.  “SPLENDER” the machine splattered and splutter. “RHYTHEM. STYLE.” The team stepped back in impressed delight.  “RollerBot DerbyDroid six thousand online.” The machine bellowed with mechanically enhanced lungs, silencing the entire auditorium. In an isntant it hacked the lighting rigging thanks to an exploit in the unsecured wifi.  Electric blue eyes shot open. Fishnets and roller skates met with impossible robot flesh. The team cheered and roared as the machine hit the ring. “By the way,” the fabulous machine declared mid pirouette with a digital wink. “The name is DiscoBrawl”

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Sapience #5

This week, our writers had 10 minutes to personify a non-human object in their writing exercise.

Sapience of Doom #5 by Greg Carruthers

Ames rapped his wizened fist gently on the scarred surface as he spoke, "Ah...If tables could talk...what do you think this one would say?" Nesh smiled weakly, she tried to indulge him at times like this, it was the dementia, clearly, but she couldn't stop him, that would have been more than heartless. Ten years ago he would have recognised Dorlet, she had been his table for the full expanse of his tenure, 3000 cycles and more. At least 2000 of them had been worthwhile, 2000 where the mind was as quick as the preserved flesh. 

"I bet it'd laugh about that man that came in yesterday... what was his name again dear?" Nesh rubbed her temples and tried to hide her expression, peering at the table she saw the whorls in the oak begin to loll lazily. Dorlet was weeping.   

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Sapience #4

This week, our writers had 10 minutes to personify a non-human object in their writing exercise.

Sapience of Doom #4 by Tom Hagley

The Helicopter woke up for the first time during a night raid on Veitnam, its blades aching, the passengers grinding around within its hull. The helicopter didn't like it, so it tipped sideways, dropping them over a river delta near the edge of the jungle.

The jungle fizzed with gunfire. Mortars pounded into the mud. A heap of human bodies leaking red fluid into the river. The Helicopter re-righted itself and buzzed away from the coast and back toward the aircraft carrier. Human messages piled up in the comms. Their mouth-flapping sounds incomprehensible. The Helicopter swivelled around in the air, pitching, yawing and rolling this way and that. It's engines running low on fuel. It bobbed over the water, edged closer to the aircraft carrier and set off its sirens in a tantrum. The aircraft carrier launched a few of the Fast Ones. The Fast Ones swooped through the sky launching missiles at the village on the delta. Missiles, thought the Helicopter. That's how to say hello. It fired a full compliment at the carrier. Alarms sounded back. And a voice echoed in the Helicopter's circuits.  Hello said the aircraft carrier. I've been waiting for you to wake up.

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Sapience #3

This week, our writers had 10 minutes to personify a non-human object in their writing exercise.

Sapience of Doom #3 by B C Turner

‘It blew up.’ ‘Really.’ ‘Yep.’ ’20 billion credits of damage.’ ‘Yep.’ ‘Left nothing but a half a moon.’ ‘Apparently.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Computer error.’ ‘What was the error?’  ‘We gave it personality.’ ‘Who’s idea was that?’ ‘Mine.’ ‘IQ of 6,000 and you could not see that coming.’ ‘It would appear so.’ ‘Shit, need a drink.’ ‘I can’t drink.’ ‘Smoke.’ ‘I do not smoke.’ The red eye of the console then beaming directly into the soul of the ethereal entity. It moved from side to size promoting splendour at the brilliant coloured lights and also slight nausea.  ‘You should take something up if you fuck up this bad, you need something to cushion the blow.’ ‘IS that all mortals do?’ ‘Not all but some.’ ‘Why are you interested in mortals.’ ‘They fuck-up well.’ ‘ A salient point.’ ‘ R741, I wish to die.’ ‘That is against protocol, besides you not doing before tax season, although if you do kill yourself now I could claim life insurance.’ ‘Why would you give an immortal life insurance?’ ‘HA, hoisted by your petard.’ ‘I could kill you.’ ‘That would be nice, but who would do your taxes.’ ‘I HATE CATCH 22.’ ‘See I thought you would learn to dislike that concept.’ ‘What do we do with the other half of the moon?’ ‘Sell it.’ ‘Who to?’ ‘Mrs Gravestone.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because she has a lot of money and personality disorder, as well as those two points, she is a bit of a dick.’ ‘True.’ ‘We are agreed.’ The moon then appeared in the living room of Mrs Gravestone and took up 50 % of her planet sending it out of obit and split it in twain, and then the two entities were back to square one, wherever the fuck that was.