“I may not get outta here, but Nether will you”


Apparently you have made newcomer to our site Vincent Pritchard fell right at home.  He is entering a second time in our contest You Didn’t Write That.  If you didn’t write that yet, smash a brick through window number four on our menu bar and let the rules come tumbling down.


AND here is a little secret, a reward for all you who read the work of other writers.  The Bold and Benevolent OZ (that would be moi) is changing the rules, just because I can (the process of my will being absorbed by my fingers and then transferred onto the site is called Ozmosis)  Instead of limiting  the entries to two per writer, at the incestance of KYLE Katz I am allowing THREE!.

I will make a formal announcement soon.  The only catch is, I want you to bring one new person to our site, either as an author, or someone who leaves a comment.


In the meantime, here is Vincent’s new tale.  Or tail, if I am reading it right.

On the Conquest of the True Hands and their Eventual Fall, Volume VI

by Vincent Pritchard

The floor was wet with a mixture of sweat, tears, and blood. A single schizophrenic lightbulb told its story in erratic bursts of lucidity followed by long periods of reticence, the shadows it cast like silent pleas from a long-since-departed witness.

They wrote wards, and she cursed. They beat her legs raw, and she swore. They broke her teeth with a brick, and she spat the pieces into their eyes. Tonight, she would divulge, or they would flay her alive, they said.

That night, she hung limply from her bonds, mumbling. She looked up, met her captors defiantly. Her eyes trailed to her feet, followed the pattern that was scraped in blood on the tiles.

She smiled a broken, jagged smile, and spit one droplet of blood into its center. The True Hand closest suddenly screamed, and just in front of where he once stood was a glistening black figure, smoking like Nether.

“Your wards were strong,” it growled, showing rows of pointed fangs. “That she may not leave. That she may not die. That she may feel her punishment. But, that she may not call friends? You didn’t write that.”

Let this be a warning to you True Hands.

Churchill ordering five beers in a Roman pub to celebrate his sweat, tears and blood speech



The band found on the floor of her prison cell.

12 thoughts on ““I may not get outta here, but Nether will you”

  1. ArcaneStatic says:

    Oh no, there seems to have been a processing error! Both instances of the word “words” should read “wards.”

  2. Michael Stang says:

    At some point, when you take a break off Mt. Olympia, and revisit us mortals, I would like to hear the history behind the True Hands.  Devilish they are to the reader until we get to the revenge of one who can turn  them into smoke and ash.  Your dungeon story is filled with the horrific talent that matures my emotions as I read.  Is there a fledged effort behind the scenes here…novella, novel, saturday night live?  Go man, go!

    • ArcaneStatic says:

      Ah, yes, um. The True Hands’ story is one that only exists in little scenes and idead much like this one. Through the scenes they have used a couple different names, in the course of time as they continued to develop and try to eradicate all the “heathens,” like you do. The only other actual complete scene I have from this saga comes later in history, when the True Hands’ numbers have dwindled. Everything else is scraps and flickers of candlewrite.

  3. Kyle Katz says:

    Whoa. The true life story of Lindsay Lohan.  
    This is really fine writing. Superb story line. Every word used to it’s fullest potential. A ballet…flawless. Love to know more about YOU, and your background. Where do you shop? What’s your favorite color?…..but seriously.

  4. Diane Cresswell says:

    Oooooh  I got shivers with this one – there is always something that is forgotten.  Friend indeed.  So glad you contributed Vincent…please do stick around.  Fangtastic…and spiky.

  5. Chalice Divine says:

    Oh sweet revenge, that cold gourmet repast ! The timing, the dawning ass-kickery incoming on wings of black restitution. this was shivery delight!

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