Spark Archive

Here you can find previous sparks and the listener submissions they inspired. No spark is ever "closed". If you would like to build on a submission in this archive or add your own, email us at afling@tumbledie.com or tweet us @tumbledie.

Heirloom

Episode 4

The Family Violin

Contributor: Trevor
Added to: Horror Vault

Passed between generations, this unremarkable soprano chordophone hides a dark secret. 

Inheritance of this heirloom is accompanied by a forewarning that it is to be played sparingly and only in dire circumstances of need. Cautious generations have kept it locked away until necessity arises. The use of this instrument can grant your greatest desires, but they come at an equally great price.

No one remembers whence it came into the family’s possession but all are aware of its presence.

Spoken of in hushed tones it has been whispered that a distant great-grandfather was bestowed this cursed heirloom for performing a dark task for some infernal fiend. But, that’s just speculation…

Easily confused for a secondhand flea market fiddle, once played the dusty and worn wood-grain becomes smooth and glows with a mahogany color one might confuse with the stain of oxidized blood. The tarnished strings begin to gleam as it draws essence from the musician.

The player needs no musical aptitude, in fact, the few skilled instrumentalists who’ve played it felt disturbed by the experience as if they were driven beyond their abilities by some unseen force. 

Only one unnatural tune of impossible notes plays on this violin. A song that no one has ever heard before or can ever remember after.

As the song continues the heir is imbued with a feeling of ecstatic fulfillment yet all who are audience to the performance become traumatized by the terrible experience without understanding why. Witnesses claim that during play the instrument’s surface ripples with writhing movements of inhuman limbs as shadowy tendrils emanate from the body.

Soon after the player will experience a wished-for success or receive a great boon. But balancing this windfall, unexpected tragedy invariably follows. An unexplained accident, the loss of a pet, or sudden death of a loved one. The violin will have its sacrifice.

The Sword

Contributor: Gabe
Added to: Fantasy Vault

When Ryella's mother passed, it was wretched. It hit Ryella especially hard, as she and her mother were close, and could even communicate with only glances and minute gestures.

 What was frustrating, was the will. Irys was given her grandmother's engagement ring, and Tole was given a sturdy hand-sewn set of leather gloves, made by her mother when she had first learned handwork. Ryella was given a long dirty wooden box with a carving of a spider on the side. The carving itself was off center and scratched in, almost as if it was not an intentional part of the box, but some kind of an artistic afterthought. Inside the box was a sword. It was a dull silver, with translucent black gems covering the hilt. Even the grip itself bubbled with tiny inky, see-through stones, 

Ryella did not like swords. She hated that people killed animals, and the thought the people sometimes murdered other people was even worse. Ryella's opinions on war, very similarly matched her brother's feelings on someone who said "no thank you", to sizzled pork. She tried not to be ungrateful. It took everything she had to not sweat jealousy at her sister's ring. And her brother's gloves were of a sentimental practicality that mirrored the way mother had carried herself. The sword was a sharp and cruel reminder of what she could already not stop thinking of. Stranger still, was that no one, not even their father, knew their mother had a sword. She had always shared Ryella's loathing of violence. 

That first night, Ryella tried to sleep with the sword by her bed, as some connection to her mother. but she had to stash it under the stairs. She didn't like how it felt being close to the thing. Her imagination swam with thoughts, visions of pictures being drawn out on the parchment of her mind, outlines of sadness, and shapes of warning. The sword seemed to speak to her without saying a word, and Ryella did not want to hear what such a tool of death would have to say to her. No one else could hear the silent whispers. The sword belonged to her. It was trying to communicate. To her. Someone was going to have to listen.

Holiday

Episode 3

Illumination Day

Contributor: Kylen
Added to: Fantasy Vault

Three hundred and forty-one years ago, on the longest day of the year, the Beacon of Truth was lit by the Keepers of the Light, marking the founding of the Free Illuminate: the greatest nation ever known to history. 

A bastion of knowledge, a protectorate of truth, faith and understanding, the Free Illuminate grew from that place. At the base of the great tower that held aloft the silvery light of Truth itself, a free and open society gathered itself, turning away no one, and rejecting only falsehood. No one could speak an untruth in the light of the Beacon, which burned forever thanks to the Book of Everlasting Truth, taken from the Great Golden Library in the far south. 

As the Free Illuminate grew and grew, collecting more minds and more thoughts to its beacon, there was soon demand for another Beacon to be erected at a site some distance from Truth. And so, on an Illumination Day some thirty-nine years later, the Beacon of Justice was lit, and the Justiciars were forged in its light of fair but uncompromising justice for the people of the Free Illuminate.

Over the centuries, more Beacons have been lit, powered by the Golden Library's Books of Virtue. The Beacon of Liberty upon the vast plains of the east, the Beacon of Compassion on the shores of the Ivory Sea, the Beacon of Valor at the edge of frozen Firenze, and the Beacon of Humility in the deep valley of the Titan's Cradle.

Two Virtues yet remain: Reason and Sacrifice. Where will those Beacons be lit? No one yet knows, but every citizen of the Illuminate looks forward to celebrating the light of another Beacon adding to the world.

On each Illumination Day, all citizens of the Free Illuminate take a day of respite from their labors, look to their closest Beacon, and contemplate the Virtues. Some mark the last step of a vast pilgrimage to each of the lit Beacons by making their last ascent on an Illumination Day.

Consider your every action in the light of the Virtues, friend, and may this Illumination Day bring you ever closer to the light of true understanding.

Interplanetary Potluck

Contributor: Gabe
Added to: Sci-Fi Vault

An interplanetary potluck where everyone, if possible, comes to cook each others’ delicacies from their homeworld. You must clearly state if you have used any of the 14 major allergens, such as soy, plastic, and cyanide. Acts of war are strictly forbidden during the Orakaen week-long celebration, and guests may come and go as they please. Nobody knows how every planet in the known galaxy had many easily accessible portals built on them, nor who built the mechanical beings, the Oraks, who hosted the event. They had just always been there. But everyone looked forward to the time, more or less every year (depending on your planet size) when the portal opened, and they could step through. Perhaps they would feel differently if they knew that the Oraks could see the future. A future this holiday attempts to prevent from ever happening...

Guardian Day

Contributor: Eric
Added to: Sci-Fi Vault

On the day in question, it had been well known that others were out there. The problem was how to cross the vast distance of spacetime. When kinetic contact was made with the first of several hundred known worlds, the encounter was not pleasant. The hostile L took every care to conceal their intentions until arrival in the far corner of our star system. Our fleet which was sent to greet them was far from adequate to protect against their venom. It became clear that for all of mankind's advances over the two hundred plus years of deep space exploration, ours was a developed civilization that ranked low on power. The remnants of the survivors of this initial attack fled back to Earth with only the thoughts of an eventual doom of our species to accompany them. 

Shortly thereafter, when the L arrived outside of Mars Point Seven and poised themselves to consume the colony there - others arrived to serve as our saviors. The Galaxy had more order to it than we had believed. This policing force came to be our guide and protector. The Enteaar gave promise to the idea that mankind may one day venture alone beyond our star system. But for now, we remain protected. They are our guardians and on this day, we pay them homage.

Barkeep

Episode 1 & 2

Old Gabria of the White Sticks Tavern and Inn

Contributor: Jon (Tale of the Manticore)
Added to: Horror Vault

She is old, portly, with eyes that are tired, but kind.  She has been a widow from before she moved to the crossroads town of ... whatever the name of the village is.  She said she was looking for some peace and quiet - someplace she could start a little business that would keep her from becoming lonely in her twilight years.

Actually, she is here for a purpose.  Ever since she came here, and she has been here for over twenty years now, she has been looking for someone.  She is beginning to lose hope that he will eventually pass by her way and stop for a drink or to rent a room.  She fears he might be dead... but if there is any hope at all, she will wait, cleaning tables, making beds and jawing with the locals - who she has come to love - while she waits for his return.

Who is he?  Well, let's leave that to someone else to fill in.

 

Eddie, Proprietor of Wanderhome

Contributor: Kylen
Added to: Horror Vault

There isn't much remarkable about Eddie, or his establishment. It's the kind of place you might find on any stretch of long, poorly-traveled road. From the outside, it sometimes resembles an old barn, bowing dangerously beneath what appears to be too much weight. Other times, an abandoned gas station, the pumps standing forlorn and forgotten above their stark shadows in the midday sun. And still other times, well, it may not appear at all. You'll know it's there, though. As long as you know where to look.

As for the man himself, he stands five-foot-seven on a good day, but only five-six when he's tired. And Eddie is tired a lot. He's a man whose round, ruddy face has deep lines in it, though whether from smiling or screaming, it's hard to tell. His shoulder-length hair is stringy, and patchy in places atop his head, but it's always impeccably clean. He always seems to have a five-o-clock shadow. “It's always five-o-clock somewhere, after all”, Eddie likes to say. He's a bit soft around the middle, though from a certain angle, he appears so gaunt it seems a wonder that he's still alive.

Perhaps Eddie's most striking feature is his eyes. It can be hard to tell, as he keeps them hidden. Hidden behind a strip of double-wrapped white silk that never leaves his face. Sometimes patrons ask him about it, and his mouth does not change from its constant sad smile as he explains that the last person who looked into his eyes fell to the floor, laughing and laughing and laughing, louder and louder until it echoed off the walls and their throat began to tear and their mouth filled with blood, and did not stop until they died of a heart attack.

And the person before that, he goes on, ended an entire world.

Most people stop asking questions around that time, and go on about their business. They try not to notice that everything here is just a little off-center. The way the floor tiles don't quite line up, though there are no gaps. Or the fact that some of them came in through the door of an abandoned gas station, and others threw open rotten barn doors to arrive.

They don't talk about it, because it's not polite.

The drinks are always good, though. Eddie brews his own, and he calls it 'manna from heaven'. It doesn't come in a bottle, only from the tap, and it's always exactly the right temperature. Some swear that Eddie's 'manna' is warm like a summer day, and others call it cool and refreshing, like an ocean breeze.

Oh. Did you see that? Eddie's talking to himself again. Don't worry. He does that sometimes. Says it's the ghosts that haunt him. It always sounds like he's apologizing to someone, doesn't it. Well, that's just his way. Eddie hates to offend.

Enjoy it while you're here. You might never find a place quite like this again. If you're looking for it, though, just keep wandering. You never know when you might just wander home again.

Thimbles, Proprietor of The Clockwork Inn

Contributor: Kevin
Added to: Fantasy Vault

A diminutive individual (perhaps human, perhaps not) innkeeper and bartender who has created a complex assortment of gadgets, compartments, weapons, tools, escape routes, all built into his bar and the building. He can traverse the bar and serve numerous patrons all on his own using the mechanisms and labyrinthine passageways constructed throughout.

It connects to a secret network of tunnels and passageways extending the breadth of the entire city of Cire. He requires no nosy employees who might learn of his secrets. He is thus privy to many of the secrets that are thought to be well-hidden and answers to mysteries yet to be solved. He is a formidable opponent and a knower of obscure things.

Thimbles often wears metal devices on the tips of his forefinger and thumb on at least one hand which others have sometimes mistaken to be sewing thimbles. These are indeed tools that protect his fingertips from the constant pushing, tapping and pulling of small metal parts, but in some cases they also serve as keys to unlock secret compartments, doorways, or passages.

Clocks and similar devices are rare in this world and Thimbles is a master of their intricacies. He acquired the building where the inn resides based on the fact that it housed the ancient clock that resides in the tower at its peak. This device predates much of the city and its origins are unknown even to Thimbles.

My inspiration was based on the bartender Stella from the movie Silverado (played by Linda Hunt), a little person who remakes the world to fit her needs.

Thimbles, Proprietor of The Clockwork Inn

Contributor: Leonte
Added to: Fantasy Vault

Long ago, as alchemy began, there was a dwarf named Flagel, a friend to many seeking the elixir of life. Each time an alchemist would wander into his party, drowning their failure in alcohol, Flagel would joke, "the only elixir of life I've ever found was a double-pint."

Then it struck him: Perhaps the elixir was not a potion, nor a stone, nor a magic at all, but a liquor. Using his home and bar as a brewery, he began conducting secret experiments to reach immortality through inebriation. Using all his resources, he searched far and wide for ingredients. He trekked the abyss for fermented ooze. He spoke with dragons for their secrets. It became his life.

Finally, after many decades, he thought he had done it. Through a draconian brewing process, he had finished his final draught. A 240-proof mint whisky (yes, it was 120% alcohol). He called his invention: Flagel. For he was a master mixologist, not a linguist.

And it worked- after nearly a century, Flagel sipped his flagon o’ Flagel, and instantly died. He was so quickly smashed that his soul ripped from his body, but too impure to return to the spirit realm. Flagel himself and his Flagel were lost to time. His legend was slowly forgotten.

But Flagel lives on. In every tavern, there is a barkeep by the name of Fleegel (a clever pseudonym). Inexplicably, he knows the gossip of every town (that has a tavern). He will pour you a pint and tell you what you need to know. The only thing he will never tell is who he truly is, nor any of his stories. For Fleegel is actually the ghost of Flagel, making the best of his Terran entrapment, but terrified that one day his concoction may be discovered again.

Of course, there is a whisper in the wind. Ancient elders remember snippets of a legend. “I’ve heard of a shot that smells like your mother’s womb.” “Ale as old as time, brew as it can be.” “I tasted it- body like river-troll snot and racehorse piss, and a disgusting undertone of cinnamon.” Alas, only legends now, buried by time (and sand, and dirt, and the Eastern Kingdom, frankly. Hope those catacombs don’t go too deep).