Second Annual .Org Writing Contest

Greetings Fellow .org goers. To keep us busy until Barbarian Invasion gets here, I(and a few other notable patrons) thought it was time to keep outselves entertained. To this end we are hosting the Second .Org writing contest.

THE IDEA

If you're new to the .org or a long time veteran here; chances are you've stumbled into the Mead Hall once or twice. Many patrons post there, crafting their own tales of glory, shame, and anything else that comes to mind. There are so many stories it would be hard to count them all. Yet now we're doing something a little different. Instead of writing for the fun of it, we're making a contest out of it, and they got a prize for winnin' they do! ~D

Your role (as the contestant) is to write a small piece which can be no more than 1000 words. It could be a short-short story, a lengthy caption - whatever your imagination dictates. Let it flow. You may pick any subject/topic you wish so long as you keep it within .org guide lines (which goes without saying).

Post your submission here in this thread, and please ONLY the submission. Any posts other than entries shall be deleted.

THE RULES (read all the rules please)

1) Your piece must be original work, by you.

2) It must be 1,000 words or less (hint: if you compose using a word-processing program, like MS Word, "word count" is one the their features).

3) It must remain unedited after submission (it wouldn't be fair to see someone else's submission, then change your's to match their idea).

4) Your language must abide by the Org's forum rules.

5) The contest is open to ALL, from Junior Patron to Admin.

6) One entry per user name.

THE PRIZE

1st prize: The winner gets a specially modded "writer award" tag that goes under their avatar; as well as the honour and respect that comes with it. As well as custom made art by Dimeolas! (thanks him for adding this great new prize for the winner)

Runner up: The runner up shall recieve a Japanese caligraphy set (mailed by Kukrikhan to the adress of your choice.) Thank kukri for adding a new prize.

https://jimcee.homestead.com/files/CallSet.jpg


THE JUDGING

This contest runs from today, 26 July, until midnight GMT, 2 August. At midnight this thread will be closed.

I've chosen the model of judging used by the organiser of the last contest, Kukrikhan, to be set for this one as well. Two volunteer(who are yet to be named at this time) judges will rate each submission and vote for the one they like best. each judge has 1/3 of the overall vote, combined they have 2/3. The other 1/3 is decided by a poll of Org voters. The two volunteers will revote/re-negotiate as they need to do assure a winner is chosen. The poll will open the day after the contest is closed and will run for five days. more details on the poll will be posted when it is.

Your submission will be judged on:
a) originality
b) presentation
c) entertainment value

thank you. :bow:

Ok, i want to register please!!!!
I was gong to use my Kingdom of Smeg story but I decided not to....right

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Sandman

Now you lay me down to sleep, pray the lord my soul to keep
If I die before I Wake, Pray the lord my soul to take

The man crawled, silently across the gardens of a small housing estate on the outskirts of Carterton, Oxfordshire. He went like a grass snake through the moonlight, skirting hedges and ever moving forward to his prey.

He went without a sound towards the house at the end of the estate, a typical, brick walled home that looked like it belonged on a commemorative plate or a postcard of the Cotswolds area. none of the lights were on, only the dim streetlamps and the full moon lighted the way of the tall, well built man that crouched in his prey's garden, looking ,no, staring at the window that loomed above him. He retrieved his rope from his backpack and hooked it around the Sky television dish, and he climbed.

As he reached the roof of the postcard-esque house he retrieved a tiny picklock from his pitch black coat pocket. Everything this man wore was black, from the cloak to his shoes, all his garments were made for stealth. He lowered himself down the roof so he was perpendicular to the window of the targets bedroom, he looked down and saw the window open. The Man smiled to himself, this was too easy, he had expected better.....

His next move was to ease the window open, again silently, he crawled through the narrow gap and saw, to his dismay, there was no-body in the bed.
Ah well, he thought to himself as he dropped onto the floor like a mouse, he must have moved bedrooms.
The Man stood up and a hand gripped him from behind, twisted his neck and dropped him onto the floor
"Looking for someone?" Said the Sandman.....

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Comes from an idea i had about publishing a book, who knows, if i win i may do that, then i will give you lot who voted me free copies....good luck to the rest of you, your stories are probably better than mine ~:cheers:

Well Monk. Here is my story. Hopefully it's gonna be the winner.

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"Uhhh"

The warrior opens his eyes. Dust and blowing winds irritate his eyes. He got on his feet and looked with horror at what happened. He whispered: “My friends are gone. I am lonely against our enemies”. His whispers echoed across the whole landscape, after being absorbed by the now calm wind, brushing the leaves of the willows near him. Crystal tears drop from his eyes, staring empty at the blue sky, waiting for something that would never come, his lost friends.

He looked at the sky, which was now turning black, as night approached fast. Yet, he could see the moon, but no light came. Dusk covered the whole field, surrounded by hills and dense forests. Sadness filled his whole body, completely covering his soul. He kneeled and without knowing it, he whispered to his sword, requesting the power and courage needed to move on, to revenge his lost comrades. A warm feeling suddenly gripped his whole body, his sword turning to crystal, revealing the old viking runes stained by blood and destroyed by clashes with other swords, revealing the name “Halvdan”, the Viking God of Power and Nobility. Instead of seeing his scarred face, he could now see all of his lost comrades. Slowly, their figures disappeared and he could now see his face, but no longer scarred and ugly, but a new and wonderful face. His powers came back, and now a small and dim figure appeared on the ground. Simultaneously, other 9 have appeared. White tombs, with the engraved names of his fallen comrades.

The warrior smiled and said: “Farewell. I shall never see you again, my friends. But I promise you, I shall revenge your death!”
He put his sword back in her cover, and started walking towards the horizon.

The Warrior and his Fallen Friends
By Edyzmedieval

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Hope you like it. I've inspired myself from a historical fact.

The death of the last emperor of the Byzantines. He was alone, surrounded by Turks, and he had to fight alone. He killed many of them BTW. By the time help came, it was too late. He died.

I shall enter too. :bow:
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The day that it rained arrows.

- Wake up Castor!
- What now? Cant the Persians even wait for Sun God Helios to rice above the horizon, before they start to bug us again.
- Stop blabbering and get up now, something is happening!
As i stood up, I saw that our camp had turned into an ant nest.
My friend Theognis told me that, before sunrise some men had run to the camp screaming that, the Persians have came through some pass west from here. Men from Fokis, that guarded that passway were supriced by the Persian Immortals and now they are encircling us.
We had now other choice but, gather around the command tent and wait for the news. After half on hour all the commanders came out from the tent. Last one was our king Leonidas. He was in full armour with scarlet cloak hanging on his shoulders and his helmet on his armpit. He climbed on a big stone and shouted:
- Sons of Sparta! Are you so afraid of the Persians, that you cant sleep at night and gather around my tent for security! After the laughter ended he continued:
- Like you have allready heared Persians are surrounding us. Some filthy covard has betrayed us, and lead them to our flank. I and the other commanders have agreed that, majority of our forces will leave this place before it´s too late. Only us Lakedaimonians and 1100 Boitians will stay. This place is holy to us! It has been made holy by the blood of our brothers that have bled here!
So comb your hair now and polish your armor! Because i dont think that any of you want to go to Hades ugly looking!
So as Leonidas words echoed in my head, i run to my tent and armed myself. It had been decided that we would form two phalanxes one facing north, other to the South.I sayd goodbyes in a hurry to many of my friends and joined the phalanx standing North.
My friend Theognis on my right side and old warhorse called Anaksagoras on my left, we marched to North on the pass to face the Persians.
There stood the mighty Persian army. Noble Medians with their colourfull clothes and their bowes, savage Thracians with their painted bodies, Arabs with their camels, fierce Scythians on their horses and the Immortals with their shiny armours. As we stopped absolute silence fell over the battlefield. Not a single sound. I could smell the sweet smell of the corpses from previous days fighting. Then all hell broke loose. Drums, flutes, Spears and swords battering against shields. As the noice echoed from the Stone of the Thermopylai pass, i thought it would make me deaf. They charged against us like wawe against rocks, and they broke like it too. As the first wawe pulled back the sky went dark from their arrows. I shouted to Theognis:
-I cant see the sun from these bloody arrows!
-Dont Worry! He shouted back.
-Persian King is so courteous that he will cast an shadow over us,´so it wouldn´t be too hot for us to fight on this fine day!
I could only see his eyes from his helmet, but im sure he smiled when he shouted that.
It was high noon. The persians just kept coming. We slaughtered wawe after wawe, but where one fell there was two others to take his place. We werent standing on a ground anymore we were standing on human remains. Slowly but without doubt our two phalanxes were pushed towards each other. At my left the old Anaksagoras worked like an machine.Thrusted his spear on anything that came to his sight. On my right Theognis was injured somewhere to his upper torso, but he said it was just a scratch. I could see his cloak was wet,but it wasnt perspiration. Hours went by and we fought like lions, dying one bye one and the Persians kept coming. At somepoint i looked over my shoulder to the right and saw that, Theognis wasnt moving anymore. I touched his shoulder and he fell to the ground. The scratch was ten centimeters wide stabbing wound. He had bled to death. And his dead body had stood with us for sometime, that compressed we were.
I threw my spear down, grabbed my sword and run screeming towards the enemy.
- Come on cowards! Come taste my blade! I stabbed stomachs, punctured lungs, cutted throats and severed heads, untill i was so tired that i could barely stand. Then i felt strong grasp on my shoulder. I turned around,and there was Anaksagoras covered in blood,without helmet,smiling to me.
- Its not good to die alone. Come die with us.
As we were regrouping, i felt a sudden push on my side. I looked down and i saw arrow on my side. It distracted me for second too long. As i raised my head, i was looking straight to the eye of my enemy. I felt devastating pain in my chest. I stroke my sword under his chin and it came out from back of his head. He had stabbed me to my armpit and from there to the lungs.
I fell on my back and tryed to breath, put i only got blood on my mouth. I could see the warriors running over me, killing and dying. As i layd there i felt how it didn´t hurt anymore. It didn´t hurt anymore because i had found my peace.


After the Persian wars, Spartans erected an memorial stone to those who fell at Thermopylai. It sayed: Stranger, To Sparta carry this message with you; We lay here obeying our countrys law. :bow:

here's mine, a little piece of humorous (i hope) historical (kind of) fiction. :medievalcheers:


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A Moat of Entrails

(Transcript of John the Wise's address to the Fifth Committee on Anti-Barbarian Measures. Middle Summer, Anno Domine 862)

Elders, leaders, warriors, and fellow landsmen. I have been called here today to answer for my part in the minor disaster that befell our village yesterday. Now, please, there is no need to call for my head. I understand that we are all feeling somewhat upset after the latest barbarian raid. But let me assure you that when I guaranteed that the barbarian invaders would not penetrate our walls this time, I did so with only the best of intentions.

The old ways of fighting and praying simply were not working. I alone had the insight to devise a new way to counter the menace. So, if I am guilty of anything, it is of being too visionary! Gentlemen, please sit down and hear me out! Now, I hope you all agree that my idea was a good one.. Wait! Sit down for just one second please! Listen, had I more warning of the invasion, certainly my Moat of Entrails© plan would have worked splendidly. As it was, we simply did not have enough time for the moat to fester thoroughly. Not even a rabid barbarian would have driven head-long into a sufficiently putrid Moat of Entrails!©

As to the rumors floating about, let me assure you good sirs that I was at the battlements, so I will address each slanderous rumor in detail. It is true that the gate was unable to be closed because a sheep carcass had jammed the pulleys. And yes, it is true that the sheep carcass which jammed the gate (thereby allowing the invaders direct access to the town) was accidentally placed too close to the gates' pulleys and weights by my team of "entrails removers". But, look at it this way; had the gate been down, another long and costly siege would have ensued, after which we would have had to surrender anyway. So this was actually not such a bad thing, was it?


*A small ruckus ensues. Some chairs are broken.


OK, wait! Calm down! Please, I have five minutes! I have been given five minutes! Allow me my five minutes! Duncan the Fair, put your bow away! Thank you. Now, for the other rumors. It is wholly FALSE that I am in league with the Devil. I am also NOT in league with the attackers. And while it may be true that the barbarians became even more fearsome and berserk after wading through a Moat of Entrails©, the barbarians did not, I repeat, did NOT use the fairly fresh entrails as a snack after plundering our village. Nor did the enemy leader thank me personally for "providing his men with a hearty meal after a long day of raping and pillaging," as Sir Philip the Honest has accused. That is simply ludicrous.

In summation, I believe we all have to stop pointing fingers and start dealing with the current situation. And for this, we will need men of ideas, such as myself. Our good village is beginning to reek from the Moat of Entrails©, which is now becoming properly putrid. No! Wait! Sit down, sit down! I volunteer myself! See? Yes, I volunteer MYSELF and my team to cover-over the moat. However, it will likely take several days to finish the job unless some of you are willing to lend a hand. No, no! I still have two minutes! Sit down, please! Thank you. We also need to find a new source of meat, as all of the sheep were slaughtered for the Moat of Entrails©.


*A second small ruckus ensues. Insults are hurled with abandon. A few bones are broken.


Wait! Wait! Sheathe your swords gentlemen! Please! Violence won't solve anything! Duncan, would you please put your bow away? Come on! Look, none of you had any great ideas, did you? If you are all so quick to blame the one man that actually thought of something, what about yourselves, huh!? Oh, what's that? Say again? Oh. Well... yes... maybe... I suppose, in retrospect, perhaps we should have tried Duncan's idea of a flaming moat. But, gentlemen what's done is done. We can't dwell on what might have been. Duncan! Again with the bow!? That's the third time now! For a man known as "the Fair", you are not giving me much of a chance here, are you sir?


*A general pandemonium ensues. Order is restored after much furniture is thrown. John the Wise is allowed to finish his address after being cut down from a makeshift gallows.


In the name of God, I am certainly glad all of you good men finally came to your senses! As is the case, I feel I should conclude my address at that. I trust that your fair judgement will see that placing blame is NOT in our common interest. I thank you for your time. Oh, and by the way, our homes will likely need a good washing, since the barbarian invaders tracked and dripped a good deal of the Moat of Entrails© in with them. Now, this would normally be women's work. But, seeing as the barbarians took most of our women.. Hey! Whoa! Whoa! Sit down! Wait! No, no, no, let me finish! No, no! Wait just one second! No!! Hey, stop!! *URRRK!!!*


*Address abruptly concluded.


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Hehe. I liked that Big John! ~D

Here's mine. Exactly 1000 words! :book:

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A Soldier's Life is Never Easy
Or, the Art of House-to-House Fighting

Bill deeply regretted touching that doorknob.

The shrill, head-throbbing alarm it set off alerted not only the rebels inside the run-down apartment building but also a machine gun at the top of the charred hotel at the end of the city block. Bill’s comment on the situation was somewhat tangier than “shucks.” How could he have known that the building’s alarm had survived days of orbital bombardment and ground shelling, as well as destruction of the power grid in this sector?

“Just my luck, picking the only house on the block with a battery-powered alarm,” he grumbled. But the whizzing of bullets disturbingly close to his head cut off those sentiments – the machine gunner had spotted him! He dove into the alley between the apartment with the alarm and the last building his squad had cleared, a gutted butcher shop. His timing was perfect: a split second after he took cover someone inside the apartment riddled the door Bill had tried to open. If he was just a hair slower, there would have been much less Bill. Looking on the bright side, he noted that ricochet from the machine gun fire had shattered the alarm – one less assault on Bill’s poor eardrums.

Four days of fighting had left 12th Infantry Division depleted – only a third of the original eleven thousand soldiers had survived the landing and subsequent carnage. The survivors had fought a whole three and a quarter miles to their objective, a supply depot seventeen and three quarter miles further into the wrecked city. That kind of attrition transformed green-as-paint recruits into veterans in minutes. But it also made for a lot of letters starting with “We regret to inform you that your son was killed in action against the enemy.” Corporal William Thurgood would have preferred to remain a buck private – but, like most things in the Army, he didn’t have a say in the matter. The sergeant acting as company commander had pick Bill and a handful of others to lead double-squad sections. Five minutes after the abrupt promotion ceremony, a sniper removed the sergeant’s head from his body.

Bill had little time to contemplate all that, however, as several people were trying to kill him. And his platoon (it had been his for a whole three hours) was under small arms fire in the snow and rubble-strewn street. And he still needed to clear this apartment. And the terrifying screams of incoming mortar fire and the following heavy thuds meant his platoon was in even greater danger. And, quite frankly, William Thurgood the First, Corporal in the Army of Republic, did not want to die.

“Corporal! What should we do?” The shout just pierced the din of battle and the cries of the wounded.

“Take cover and fire on that machine gun!” And, to himself, “Deep breath, Bill. Stay Calm, Be Alert, Think Clearly, Act Decisively. Just like boot camp. All right, first things first. Time to take care of this building.”

And with that, he crawled back in front of the door. It was a much easier task without the attention of that machine gun – it had moved on to other, less difficult targets. Praying that the rebels inside wouldn’t take this instance to hose down the alley with lead, Bill took a grenade out of his pack and pulled the pin.

“One.” He got up into a crouch. Time seemed to slow as he followed what was second nature since boot camp.

“Two.” He grasped the doorknob with shaking fingers.

“Three.” He turned the knob and opened the door. He saw four rebels turn at look down the hallway at him, their heavy gray coats contrasting with the tacky, bright green wallpaper of the apartment wall. They moved for their guns.

“Four.” In went the grenade. It bounced down the hall towards the surprised enemy. Bill shut the door and dove for the alley in one move.

With five, the door was blown open and into the alleyway, missing Bill’s boot by inches. The sharp whir of shrapnel pierced the thick, dull ache in Bill’s ears. Instinct drove him through the next steps of building clearing, and he got up and rushed into the now door-less apartment. The wallpaper was now charred black instead of green, but Bill didn’t notice. He was more interested in the staggering form of a surviving rebel. The man stopped reeling and stared at Bill. Blood poured from the enemy’s ears, probably from the concussion of the grenade. For a second, neither combatant moved. Bill brought his rifle up faster by three seconds – he hadn’t born the brunt of the grenade’s blast. He pulled the trigger.

“Click.”

Bill swore.

The Colonist aimed.

The blast that knocked Bill out the hallway back into the alley also destroyed the apartment building completely. The darkness engulfed him and his worries ceased.

Bill awoke to deep rumblings. He thought it might be his stomach – he couldn’t remember the last time he ate. He looked around – the ruins of the apartment were strewn about him and he ached all over, as if he had done a billion push-ups and sit-ups. The rumbling was not coming from him but from a Morrell tank in the street. It’s ugly and compact build had led soldiers to name it the “Hog,” and Bill had never had seen a more beautiful sight in his life. Hogs meant Mechanized Infantry – which meant reinforcements.

As if to confirm his relief, a Mech Inf grunt ran up to him. “Looks like we just saved you and your buddies, Corporal. As usual.” There was a still calm, noticeably lacking in the rattle of machine gun fire, the scream mortar shells, and the crackle small arms.

“I’ll take it, Mac.”

“You OK?”

“I’ll walk it off. Came out pretty lucky. Nothing broken. Sore as hell, but you’d expect that.”

“Somebody up there must be looking out for you, Corporal.”

“Just point me at the enemy, Mac. We still have a job to do.”

Okay here's mine. It's actually a faction description for my mod, but its a story too.

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The alternate story of Atlantis

Imagine if the Isle of Atlantis hadn’t sunk and the Atlanteans came back to rule it once again. This is that story……

This story begins a long time ago, with the first great civilization. This great nation was Atlantis. Her people were advanced way beyond their age and were great lovers of peace. Trade brought great wealth to their nation and their goods could be found all over. One would think such civilized peace lover would have a weak army, but such was not the case for Atlantis. They were wise enough to know a nation could not live without a good defense, so the made sure their army was of top quality. They were famous for their mighty phalanx pikemen and their cavalry that could even match the men of the steppe. For hundreds of years they lived in a golden age of peace and their culture grew significantly. This true golden age among men would sadly come to an end though. The end was not brought by a foreign enemy, or by natural disaster however. No, this sad day was brought by corruption from within.

This terrible conflict was a great civil war. The war was started by a man Cronus. Cronus was a very clever man and was known through out Atlantis as the greatest warrior that ever lived. Such a man would have been valuable to Atlantis except for one major flaw. He only desired one thing and that was power. He hated how Atlantis lived in peace. He saw peace only as an excuse for the weak. Atlantis was the greatest nation to ever exist and he thought that is was Atlantis’s destiny to rule the world, with him as her leader. The King of Atlantis would hear of no such thing and said it was Atlantis’s humble duty to teach the world, not to rule it. Thus Cronus had to work in secret to poison the people’s ears with lies about the King, telling them that he didn’t want war because he was scared. He was able to convert many to his side and began to plot for war. Eventually, he got his wish and civil war erupted. The war lasted ten long years leaving many dead in its wake. Unfortunately, Cronus had come out on top. The former King rounded up all those that were still loyal to him and left Atlantis for the end of the world….

Shortly after the Royalist left, Atlantis broke into cause. Where as the previous King had been kind and peaceful, Cronus was a complete tyrant. The war had already left the economy in ruins and now Cronus distributed all of the remaining wealth among his most trusted followers, thus leaving a starving nation of starving peasants. In this already dark hour, fate decided to deal another blow to Atlantis, but this time it was from nature. All in one year there was massive flooding, earthquakes, and even a volcanic eruption! This was more than Atlantis could take. The people decided to take their revenge by killing Cronus. After that they tried to live in anarchy, but it was to no avail. If they stayed in Atlantis they would surely die thus they decided to flee the island. They scattered across the world, spreading their knowledge and culture to all that would listen.


Of course, no news of this tragedy would reach the Royalist, as they were already far away on the high seas. Though they avoided the trouble of Atlantis, they had problems of their own. Their numbers were so small that they had to struggle to survive were ever they went, causing them to move from place to place on their boats, always running from invaders. This existence as sea nomads would finally come to a halt when they were able to find a safe haven. This haven was safe, but not much else. It was barren and would only be able to produce enough food for them to survive, not flourish. They lived in this isolation for thousands of years, losing much of their technology, but never their culture. Sadly after thousands of years in this life the Royalist would become exactly what they had fought, a nation of warriors, instead of a nation of peace. They rallied under their new King as he promised them great riches and glory from their former home. They boarded their ships and sailed to conquer the land that was rightfully theirs…

The road back to Atlantis was very hard. They had no clue how to get to Atlantis though their ancestors had left them clues. They figured if the sailed east they would eventually find it. After years of sailing the Atlanteans had somehow managed to find it. When they finally got there they were shocked. Their once mighty Kingdom was gone without a trace. Instead they found only some barbarians that had decided to call Atlantis home. The Atlanteans were able to settle in a nice new town, but things were tuff. The barbarians raid them constantly and food is scarce. It is time to teach these barbarians a lesson and remind them who they real masters of Atlantis are!


As the new ruler of Atlantis you have a very tough road ahead of you. Your ancestors have striped the land of its resources and the farmland is far from fruitful. First and foremost, you must get rid of the barbarians on your island. This will be difficult as your army is small and weak. If you successfully beat the barbarians the road is still not clear. You are surrounded by enemies and have no army or money. If you can get passed the first couple bumps in the road you can achieve great things. You have the ability to train the best soldiers this world has ever seen and you’re close to very rich lands. You must succeed in your efforts all for the glory of Atlantis!

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It's like 997 words long, enjoy and please pick me ~D

The Zen of being a soldier

Waking to the sounds of yelling and the movement of the men around him, he rose quickly, gathering his gear to stand in formation. Third from the left, third rank, he was glad he wasn’t in the front row, ashamed of his fear.

No breakfast, they could see them on the horizon, already coming closer. He had to strain to look past those before him, careful not to draw the attention of his Captain. Again he felt the pull of opposite feelings, confident in his leader but hateful of the discipline.

Now they moved, in unison, to the edge of a field. His unit was on the left, cavalry the only forces on their flank. It was happening fast now, as the two forces closed, but in his mind time was expanded, so he could see the clouds and trees and smell the men around him, recognizing each unimportant thing. He had seen battle, but that was part of an overwhelming force. He wanted to prove his brave spirit, and he wanted to melt into the ground. Today would be harder than before.

The order to charge was obeyed and he went with the crowd, when it stopped he lifted the long sharp pole over his head and thrust it into a man in the enemy’s front rank. The man had not seen him, focused on those closer. Now he looked around, not only for another potential victim, but perhaps someone was looking to thrust a spear into him.

Crushing force from his left and he was knocked to the ground as hostile horses hit his unit from the left. On the ground he was nearly trampled, first by the enemy then as his own cavalry plowed into the fray. Tempted to lie still, he was afraid to get up. But still more frightening to him was to be crushed by hooves.

He rose, only to realize his weapon was lost. A fierce warrior from the other side, riding a terrified horse, brushed against him. He realized the man was locked in combat with another mounted man. In reaction he raised his arms to block the horse, but this led him to grab the man by the leg. This caused the horseman to turn and look down, and their eyes met, but before he could bring his sword down he was beheaded.

Uncontrolled the horse bolted, and he was unable to break free as it ran in terror, his arm caught under the headless man’s leg. He was beaten by the ground and the horse’s legs until he lost consciousness.

He came to, hanging from under the headless man’s leg. His arm was dislocated, the rest of him so bruised and scratched and screaming in pain that he almost passed out again. He worked himself free, and the horse, with most of its master, wandered off.

He looked down from the hill he climbed without knowing, to see the battle. Their left had collapsed, but their right had prevailed, so the armies swirled together, yin and yang. He could barely stand, let alone walk, and he wanted so badly to sit. But the mutually opposed forces within him were subdued and he accepted that he must go back.

Down the hill, gathering strength as he descended. The battle increased in ferocity as its size diminished. Some men ran back over the ridge he had first seen them come over. He entered the original position, now obvious from the bodies of the dead and dying. He grabbed an enemy spear, and walked unseen toward an enemy Captain, astride a horse. Calmly he approached, hoisted the pole above his head, and drove it into the man’s back. The man screamed, but it was just another sound among many. No one noticed as the Captain turned, still impaled, and charged. But the blow was deadly, and as horse and rider bore down he tumbled from the saddle. The beast gave a glancing blow then rode off, perhaps to join up with the headless Captain’s horse.

As he rose up on his good arm, he saw the enemy collapse. He had killed a powerful and important man, and this had the effect of demoralizing his troops. As they ran they were pursued, fear providing the speed needed to stay just out of reach. One by one the units slowed and halted before regrouping. Only a small band, probably elite soldiers, stood and fought, but their numbers dropped slowly as more and more men surrounded them. With the last death it was quiet.

He stood and looked around, found a third spear. He chose it for one reason, it was bloody. He focused his will and walked to where the bulk of the men were reforming. Before he could rejoin them, they were ordered to secure the field. They would kill most of the enemy wounded, capture any officers, tend to their wounded, strip the dead, count the heads.

As he stumbled through the bodies he saw an older man from the opposing army, missing an arm. Pale and bewildered, he knew this man was an enemy but could not understand why. The man would die soon, regardless, so he raised his bloody spear and gently, but firmly, ran it through his throat. Open eyes, open mouth, open hands pleaded but to no avail.

He had killed three men. The first was armed, and from the front, but unseen. The second was armed, but from the rear. The third, unarmed, but face-to-face. All three had to be killed, each for a different reason.

He had struck the decisive blow, but would never be recognized for it. He was filled with pride for having done such a thing, appalled that he had stabbed a man in the back. He had killed an unarmed man, a man who was already dead but had not yet accepted it.

He tried to make sense of it, but was overwhelmed by the need to eat breakfast.

ichi :bow:

Well, here's my go. Don't expect it to make much sense... I'm hoping to draw some laughs rather than awards.


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All of the sudden, the guards grew silent, their faces mixed in equal measures of surprise and alarm. The conference members threw alarmed glances at the guards, who slightly nodded, confirming the members’ fears. I desperately looked around, trying to find the cause of the calamity. I whirled about suddenly for no apparent reason, and saw something I had never seen before, the sight of it filling my simple brain with wonder.

“Hey guys!! I found Waldo!” To my dismay nobody seemed fazed by my profound revelation. Even Waldo looked offended. I looked up for a second, and then he was gone. “Damn you and your chipmunk games Waldo… I’ll find you yet…” I muttered.

“Silence!” Mr. Q. Gordon boomed like a pregnant cow in labor. “Do you hear anything?” he asked desperately, his eyes wide with fear. Nobody knew his first name, but with the initial Q, nobody wanted to know. He was not a man to become friendly with. He was a big man, the type of man you wouldn’t want to share a prison cell with.

“No!” whispered Waldo dramatically. Hey, how’d you get back here? I wondered, but by the time I turned my head to try and find him, he was gone. Damn.

“Nothing?”

Everybody listened, and judging by the looks, the general consensus seemed to be that nothing was heard. I was still confused, but a sideways glance at Seifer, the only other guy I knew here, confirmed that I should remain silent.

Hmmm-, I thought musingly, when my thoughts were interrupted by Gordon.
“We took the necessary security procedures,” Gordon’s voice was barely a whisper. “Even so, they tracked us here… this is worse than I expected…”

Hmmmm, I mused thoughtfully, when my thoughts were again interrupted. I began to angrily wonder who was writing the damn story, and why I could never get to thinking anything worthwhile, when suddenly my thoughts of not being able to think were interrupted.

A noise rang out into the silence. A noise so silent, that it only served to make the silence more silent. I was confused over this concept for a good few seconds, when it all made sense. However, this won’t make any sense to you until I stop leaving you in suspense and tell you what I saw.

A blur of black and white burst silently into the room. I looked up, and quickly recognized it by the characteristic red markings on its cheeks.

“Mimes!” I yelled out, horror stricken. I had no idea things were this serious. The creature was followed by another, then another, and yet another. More kept coming.

It was hideous. The mimes silently built up an invisible wall before we could utilize the few anti-mime weapons we possessed. Curses! And all the worse for me, I was the odd one who had decided back in college that a “Defense against the Common Mime” course would never have practical applications. Go figure.

Seifer had grabbed a pistol and was firing rounds off at the mimes, but to no effect. The shots merely ricocheted off the invisible wall. There was no time for thought. Everyone in the room began trying to mime weapons of their own, but to little use. Fights erupted around the room between the mimes and the conference members.

Seifer mimed a chainsaw, and a pretty good one at that, but the mimes were too used to this old trick. One mime, in an epic struggle, managed to disarm Seifer and, in the same fluid motion, mime a piece of rope, which he used to tie Seifer to a pillar. The other members hadn’t fared very well. Most were trapped in mime-made invisble boxes on the ground, trying viciously to claw their way out. The mimes’ only response to this was silent laughter.

I was the only one left. The mimes had me cornered, evil grins and intimidating eyes pointed my way. I quickly mimed a twig, a paper clip, and a porcupine. None of these seemed to help. The struggles of the other staff members ceased and suspense music began to play as the mimes slowly advanced towards me. One mime angrily flashed sign language to another. The other dejectedly turned off the suspense music, which had the adverse effect of making things more suspenseful. I set the porcupine free.

I suddenly remembered one last thing… I made a grab for my briefcase, fumbled around in one of the side pockets, and pulled out an ancient cassette player. I popped a blank tape in. The nearest mime grew wide-eyed and made a lunge for me. I pumped the volume up to full, and moments before the mime reached me, pressed the play button.

The effect was amazing, to say the least. Several mimes keeled over, but they were just miming it. The rest of the mimes covered their ears. In a quick flash of sign language, the one who seemed to be the alpha mime motioned their exit. The mimes hastily beat a retreat.

The mimes’ invisible boxes began to disintegrate, and the conference members broke free, one by one. Seifer let out a long breath as the invisible ropes around him vanished. A quick look around the room confirmed our worst fears. They had taken Gordon.

“Government mimes,” Seifer breathed. I raised a questioning eyebrow. This was a conference called by the government. Why would the government’s own mimes attack? “Or rather, they used to be. Remember that series of experiments and alterations the CIA did on mimes a few years back? They broke free, and were never heard from again.”

“Until now.” I had remembered reading of the government’s experiments to create the so-called “Mind Mimes” in my copy of Anarchist Monthly a few years back. The CIA had gone ahead and experimented on them before they were fully tamed. Big mistake. They had broken free and caused havoc, before mysteriously disappearing.

“Well. We may have won this battle…”

Divine Blessings

“It’s my duty as the strong to oppose any who threaten the weak
It’s my honor to keep safe Mirrodins secrets, not to use them
My destiny is to save others, so theirs can be fulfilled
My shield of light will admit no shadow
I hereby dedicate my body to my country
And my life to my king.”

5 years later

The door of the main hall smashed open with a loud BANG! In the entrance a fierce man appeared. Whispers went around the main hall. Who was this man that so ruthlessly disturbed the meeting? Shocked, the audience looked to the man, as he walked towards the king.

“Who are you, and how dare you to disturb the king like this,” a man who sat right to the king asked: “Identify yourself!”
“It’s enough Darell, stop before you make a fool out of yourself,” the king spoke.
“But, my lord”
“Enough is enough, Darell”
“Now, if you wouldn’t mind, tell us your name stranger?” the king gently asked.
“My name is Gerrard, my lord,” the stranger replied as he kneeled: “Captain on the eastern borders, my lord.
“I suppose you have a good reason to disturb my meeting, on a kind…let’s say unpleasant way.”
“I do, my lord. General Ullrich had send me here with a urgent message my lord.”
“Well, why keep us waiting?”
“2 days ago a scout reported people fleeing towards our lands. He asked one of the refugees about the cause of their sudden flight. The answer was quit disturbing. A Phyrexian army is marching our way, murdering and looting anything in their path.”
“Quite unnerving news, lad. Sit down, while we will discuss this matter.”

The stranger now known as Gerrard, bowed before the king before he went to the place assigned to him. He only casted one look on the man that shouted at him when he entered.
His name was Darell. He was known to be silent as a serpent, twisted as a lone bog and evil as the devil’s heart.

“My brothers in arms,” the king started: “ as you might have heard, we now must discuss a dangerous matter. A Phyrexian army has been send our way, to demolish everything that we call our homes. Our armies can never rival the Phyrexians. No matter what choice we will make today, it will seal the faith of thousands. Any suggestions?”
It was like a cold wind had blown to the main hall. At the time the king was finished, there was no man who hadn’t felt a shiver go down his spine. When you would look around, all you would see is grim faces and nervously moving limbs. But no man opened his mouth. Until Darell stood up and said: “The paladins would be wise not to forget about the Balduvians. As these barbarians have turned the tide of more than one Phyrexian war…and I have no doubt they’ll do it again.”
Now it was Gerrard, the stranger that arose.
“My lord, I don’t think it is a good idea. Nothing is sacred to these rats. Everything is simply another loot. Besides, we’ve been victim of their treachery and ambitions on more then one occasion. Why won’t the betray us again?”
“But my king, if we don’t hire them, Mirrodin will be lost,” Darell panted.
As the king stood up to speak, both men sat down. “All in favor to hire Balduvian mercenaries, raise their hands.
A wave of hands descended into the air. It was a undeniable fact, that Gerrald had lost this cause. The Balduvians would be hired.

I'm in aswell in this one! ~D Here is my story:

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Silent Night

The night was silent. As the first few shimmering lights glittered over the city. The only light to be seen, strangely enough was a small dot rising from the centre of the city until it reached a substantial height. The dot began to expand and expand, until it formed a ball of light. Its diameter reached the length of the whole city, covering it on all sides. The few people walking in the streets stared at this object. Suddenly the ball of light began to shrink again with a certain speed, until it became a dot again. A split of a second later the dot expanded and expanded, this time not stopping and in an instant it hit the city with terrible force…then there was darkness.

In a small village nearby, some of its inhabitants saw a great light coming from behind the hills. A deafening sound came dashing all over the area. Two minutes later, houses were being swept away and turned to dust; trees thrown in the air, … and chaos. Nobody had the chance to know what was happening, because as soon as they discovered the truth, they disappeared instantly.

Seen from above, the immense ball seemed to be gaining speed each time it expanded and destroyed cities, towns, villages, hamlets. A large crater was being created. As this explosion continued on its destructive path, people wandered: what was happening? Was this the end of the world? And suddenly darkness…
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Thanks, :bow:
Aenarion

The Squirrelslayer

Well practiced strokes propelled the canoe and its occupant swiftly down the Chenango. On his way to trade his furs downriver, his body piloted the canoe without conscious thought; his mind occupied itself by contemplating his past. An amused snort punctuated the remembrance of the fateful shot that inspired the name his adopted tribe gave him. It was an exceptionally lucky shot that pinioned two squirrels with one arrow at the height of their passions. Squirrelslayer would not have been the name he chose for himself, but most people seemed to react favorably to it; some even laughed till they cried when they learned the tale of how he earned it.
The sun was quite high, and Squirrelslayer decided it was a good time to seek some shade and break his fast, so he dexterously stroked to the east bank. When he reached it, he threw the paddle ashore. One hand carried his musket while the other dragged the canoe a few feet up the bank. The brush behind him exploded as a brave, hatchet raised, closed the gap between them. Without enough time to put finger to trigger, Squirrelslayer swung his musket in a wide arc, striking the brave a blow which knocked him on his back. With musket raised and while pondering what action to take next, Squirrelslayer’s curiosity prompted him to ask, “Why did you attack me young brave?”
Still out of breath from running along the bank as fast as the river flows while following his target, the brave managed to say, “I must take a warrior’s own scalp to my chief, so I can take my Man’s name.”
The Slayer replied with a snort of disgust, “You made a poor choice of targets, brave. Even if you took this scalp off this head, you could not take it from me. It is not mine.”
Rising to his feet and a non-aggressive stance the brave replied incredulously, “I’m at your mercy. Must I listen to your poor jokes as well?”
“No joke. My grandparents were taken from the Coast of Ivory across the ocean and were sold to a merchant in New York. My mother, she gave me to an Iroquois squaw, so my owner would not have me, and I could live like a free-man. So you see, this scalp, it’s not mine, and if you had taken it, you would have taken it from the man who owns me,” Squirrelslayer said with a smirk and a tone that expressed his cynical opinion.
If possible the young Indian looked even more confused and said, “I will never understand the ways of the white-man. My people capture prisoners. They obey, or they die, but if they escape, they are no longer a prisoner. How can one man own another?”
To which Squirrelslayer replied, “It is a thing the white people call the Law. You were born outside of it, and so I understand why it will not deter you from wanting my scalp. May I offer an alternative?” Without waiting he continued, “Come with me to the trading post. I’ll sell my skins and take the money to the fort. The captain there buys Indian scalps for two pounds. I’m sure for a few more he’d be willing to make himself or the King a quick profit and sell us one. Take it to your people and we can both be happy. I have no desire to kill you.”
Only a quick nod signified the young brave’s assent and Squirrelslayer, in a gesture of trust, turned his back to retrieve his supplies and begin his breakfast. An almost inaudible sound of grinding gravel reached his ear, and he knew the brave had leapt and a collision was imminent. He twisted, fell, and shot from the hip. The brave, pierced through the heart, landed beside him. Squirrelslayer chided himself. It was foolish to expect the brave to honor their agreement. Thinking he would keep a promise to an enemy was even more foolish than thinking he would understand slavery. Squirrelslayer promised himself to always remember that the Indian and the white man were from different worlds and that he would try and take the good from each and leave the rest.
Gazing sorrowfully at the young warrior who only had moments yet to live he said, “Tell me your name, brave, so I can pray for you and honor you in the way of my people.”
With the brave’s last breath he whispered, “Laughing Squirrel.”
The slayer raised his arms to the sky and shouted, “Ah, to be the Squirrelslayer. Ah, humanity!”

Here's mine. Hope I do a good story for once.~;p

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The alien's great fault

Yeah, I'm in trouble. Have to go to the gallows, you see. Could've been worse. Could've been chucked into a lion case. You get resurrected in there 20 times, so the pain is so bad, you'd rather drown yourself 40 times. I was escorted through the streets.

Why was I in trouble? Too old, that's why. 300 years old me is. The gits think I'm the devil's warrior. Think I must be the warrior, as the only person who could be that old is a warrior of the devil. Goodness, they made me 300 years old!

Some machine enhanced my life span, of course they made me 300 years old to make a excuse to kill me. Damn aliens. The planet Earth is suffering because of them. I saw my planet being destroyed because of these aliens.

People were running through these streets, that were basicilly machinery, no nature at all in there. Big machines, like the ones out of War of the Worlds, chased those people and caught them with ease using large, mettalic claws to pick them up. They bashed those people off bulidings and chucked them onto a basket attached at the bottom of the thing.

I was pushed out into a arena where men and women were slaughtered by the thousands. I was sweating buckets and was pouring tears all over my wrinkled face. I saw those gallows. For extra pain they strucked victims with spears.

I screamed,"Why do we live!?!?!?!? What point is there to live if you slimy gits try and kill us!" The aliens charged at me with weapons, because I insulted them. I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable.

Then they stopped. They all screamed in pain as something seemed to eat away their body. I could not see it. Then it dawned on me. Bacteria. Invisible, minute, bacteria.

I thought now I was the only human on earth, alone as I knew those aliens would die right now. I saw that I was getting younger.

Alien DNA changed me. Why I was older. Those aliens believed in Heaven and Hell. But was differeint from our religion. Alien DNA was dying and I was turning back to normal. Explains why I got into this mess. I found this out as something seemed to tell me why.

Then I saw another human. A woman. My wife. It was two remaining people on Earth. I was now with my wife. And now.... we would start all over again.

Berserker! :bow:

Eh. Might as well. Heres a quick little anecdote i wrote a few months back. See if its any decent.
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Down The Barrel

I looked down the underside of the six inch steel barrel, nicked and scratched from countless forgotten suns of use. Despite the revolver's obvious age it was clearly well made. The parts carefully hand machined from an era long past made it more of an antique than a killing tool. With a few touch ups it was reasonable to assume it could fetch a decent price displayed on red velvet in some auction house where naive rich men cared to keep alive the deaths of the past. The gun was heavey. You could see it in the strain in his arm. He'd been holding it against my forehead for the past thirty minutes. I don't think he had planned on it taking this long but it has and now the strain which he was trying so hard to conceal was showing itself. I almost felt bad for him. You could hear the strain in his voice as he tried to keep himself collected. He was rushing. He was tired. He was amateur. I let the barrel lead my eyes down its worn steel to its base. Five .38s smirked back at me nestled snuggly within their open chambers. I stopped at each one and fancied feeling them caress my skull in the way that only a high-velocity hollow-tip round could when its launched through the rifling. Designed and perfected over the years by those paid well and those unknowing not only to shatter bone but also to collapse in on themselves upon impact and splinter. I wouldn't have to worry about that though. This shot was going clean through. He twitched on the trigger. White with nervousness and impatience, sweaty and shaking ever so slightly with exertion his hand barely held a grip on the oversized bludgeon. Small men like him were never meant to use such a big gun. Its no wonder they took such pride in it. His plump eyes drew me away though. Angry, tired, and aggitated. He was ready. And so was I. He asked the question. I blinked and ran my tongue over my blood soaked teeth. The newly resettled silence was only disturbed by the metallic ticking of an unlocated clock and the seductively calming voice of the revolver.

Cigs..You Have Any ?

"Uh, so we have only 3 cigarettes left..Ow!"

..The retreating British soldiers last horizontal drops of bullets hit at the corner of the one-wall wrecked home he was hiding behind..

"These only three are done, then I'm done..", looking into his sweat-wet pocket like a kid watching his ice cream melting down..

"Yes, I can not stand that s*it without my cigs. I die withou.." The bullets fly past through the leftover woods, tearing them into pieces and dust.

"Bastards!.. I am not gonna die before I smoke these !"

The sergeants thunderous voice wakens him off that ever-started break..

"Move move move ! We'll chase them until they can not hold in the ruins of the buildings ! You ! Lift your ass up or I'll feed you with those in your hands, scumbag ! Rush out ! "

Adrenaline push can do wonders even if you are carrying a rifle and revolver in a uniform as moist as a fresh laundry for hours after two slices of hardtack with a piece of almost septic butter eaten.. He rushed off his hide like his squad mates did and let himself jump into artillery-made 4-5 meters diameter crater.. It rains slightly, in tiny drops off the grey-passionate-painter sky so that you can never imagine of your return.

"Hell.." ..takes a dry and heavy breath that nearly changes the shape of his nose.. "I'd rather breathing that blend of tobacco instead of that blood-humid weather.." ...spits out as he checks for the sergeant..

"This zone is clear, sir.. They're fleeing like rabbits in front of a panzer ! " That is the shout of the wisemouth scout standing at the edge of the second floor of a large house's "ancient" bedroom..

"Keep your eyes on the sides of the road.. Some of them still may be finding it difficult to get out of their hides.. Keep your eyes open !" sergeant reacts.

Now they are more comfortable breaths..In - out, in - out.. He couldn't get the hard and out-of-beat breath, however, he was neither wounded nor exhausted like a dying sheep. He turned his head right to back shifting his body upwards a bit. That is vapor being released just beyond the collapsed roof into the middle of the road. He cautiously lifts his flat-tyred-truck-like body out of the crater and moves towards the vapor..There's something alive there.. Well, at least alive enough to breath.. He pulls out his revolver to avoid any short-distance trouble..

The British guy looks seriously wounded. Two shots in the chest.. Red colour turns the brown into a scary tone of crimson when they are heavily blended into each other. However, red seems really heavy and is getting heavier... The Brit seems to suffer an unpredictable pain, somehow, in a mood of Zen, then gives a "What the hell are you lookin' at?" glance, short of any interest whether he will be shot to death right now or anything else.. After making sure of the Brit's unavailability to move a single joint he slowly prepares for a last shot..

Suddenly Brit releases some words out "Aahh..." wheezes..You can feel his lungs tearing apart with cracked bones "Cigs..Cigarette..You have any ?".. Good question.. He has three but never thought of trading his only heaven for anything in the middle of this hell.. Blind and steady looks strike his face. The Brit still breathes but, for sure, has not much time left.. "Well I think I may sacrifice one..He will even be unable to take a second smoke off this cig.. I may get it as soon as the guy's dead" thinks momentarily.. He grasps the "holy three" in his pocket and takes them out. He glances at the Brit as if he is lending him something for long. He lights up one and inserts slightly into the Brit's mouth. The Brit could difficultly hold the cig in his mouth, it is even hard to tell that he can smoke it. He suddenly realized that he was nearly as eager as that dying Brit to smoke..

He, then, acts to put back the two cigs left. His swollen and sweaty palms lose control momentarily, leaving the cigs into the tiny pool of rain coloured with the Brit's blood.

"F*ck!" He can not find moments to kick the Brit with anger. It was that semi-zombie's fault to make him stand there causing him to lose his cigarettes. However, he was more of a zombie than the Brit he could never kick in the hip. It was a couple of shots, one of them penetrating through his left ear. He could only see two seconds of some of his squad mates running past him forward. One of them could take a moment of look back while he couldn't give it any meaning anymore...

...

If only he had realized that he swore to die after these three cigarettes.. Aiding the Brit in his last moments, he was rewarded the way he wanted it to be..

im too busy to give you guys a short story, and what you are demanding is very short, ive already got a few under constuction for important people.
sorry, if i get the time i throw an old idea extract together for you guys to judge.
it mightn't be too good though.
thanks,
dizzy

Quasiculture
A quick idea extract by Des

The light shined off the varnished wooden table, with an eye piercing brightness, the smell of roasting coffee infected the room like a cold infects a town, and with the ring of a bell, I saw them I like to call them “PsuedoBoheimians”, their fraud only beaten by their lower class background as an undesirable factor, their focus on arts and their black and uniform appearance made them look like a bunch of teenyboppers following the latest trends, their use of fancy words doesn’t make them cultured, only money brings culture and all people know that. How can the children of common blue collar workers acquire culture, its against the very fabric of society, by all rights they shouldn’t even be attending university, it’s the way life is, those that are born to privilege are the only ones that should receive this level of education, I was born into privilege and so I deserve culture.

Another bell rang and with this bell my friend, Joseph walked in and sat at the table, he started on about how awesome he went on his accounting test. We’d met each other in accounting to be correct. After much pointless and trivial conversation, he mentioned that these Psuedoboheimians, had been badmouthing business and saying that business was for those middle class people who had no belief except for supposed status and the illusion of wealth, how dare they ever say that, they sit around uselessly contributing nothing to society in their writing and painting and drawing, talking about the latest play and classical music composure, while I, of the privileged class contribute my life to keeping the structure of society in working order, what use is an artist if he can’t calculate tax, my parents pay for these artists to go to university, while I don’t charge their parents, I pay my fees up front and am thoroughly deserving of education, whilst those people are not, they charge the government and drain what could be used to cut taxes for those who earn sixty thousand a year and get lots taken off it, my parents couldn’t afford to buy a new four wheel drive this year, so they have to wait till next year, why should they have to sacrifice their new car for these “People” who drain on society.

“Oi, Fredrick are you gonna go to that new play by Claire cooper”, ah now Claire cooper she was a playwright, and a big playwright at that, everyone of her plays bleed of grandeur and magnificence, but the tickets were always too expensive, twenty dollars was a lot to spend on a play when I could see star wars episode two for one dollar on my own television.
“Nah sorry Joseph, Its too much to spend, by the time I do everything it’ll cost more then fifty dollars”, snickering came from the table next to us where a large group of those arts students sat, one of the ones with a bad attitude said “what a stingy ass, fifty dollars, I spend that in one dinner on wine alone” this is where their money went I said to my self, they spend their money exuberantly on food and drink and entertainment, while I live off two minute noodles and still am broke, the last time I checked my bank account I only had ten grand, how could I afford to splurge on unnecessary things like plays, in fact why was I sitting in a coffee house, I can’t afford coffee, and with this idea, I said how dare those people pretend to be cultured, they claim they are cultured because they listen to classical music and see plays and read books, books aren’t culture, culture is owning a house and a car, I am cultured, they are just pretending and it makes me angry, because they pretend on the governments money, how can they live with their guilt. This world is wrong; those people should be in factories, not in classrooms.

Postnote: I wrote this under a very bad case of writers block, and the character is meant to be hated by the reader, for being an elitist snob with nothing to be snobby about.
Oh and taking the piss out of stingy middle class people, just pay your taxes and quit bitching you little whiny brats, oh I have excess money, but I can’t give it to that person who is starving to death because there isn’t enough jobs or that the jobs pay so little money.

another thing (i haven't changed the script at all, please trust this)
is it possible for me to have an entry and judge as well...
thanks,
dizzy

What the heck. First time I've had a shot at writing, so be nice!

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New York dockland, 1934
Some people are born lucky; others believe they are until their luck runs out. It’s a simple truth, and until this evening I was tempted to place myself in the first category. Right now the shotgun pointed at my face is doing it’s best to dissuade me from that particular thought.

Where did it all go wrong?

It’s a pretty run down city and has been for some time. Unemployment is at an all-time high; you can’t blame a guy for looking for a less orthodox career, not if he’s got a wife and kids to feed. An old friend from my passage to the States got me into contact with Doherty. Yeah, you’ve probably heard about him. My skills proved valuable in his line of work, and as he grew more powerful so did my reputation.

Yesterday I’d been working for the guy for a little over eight years, and as such I tended to get the juicy jobs; you know, the kind with a high payoff but which can just as easily blow up in your face. See where the luck comes in? Mine had held for a long time, from the humble beginnings right through the war with the Sicilians, during which Doherty established his dominance over this part of town.

Sitting in Doherty’s comfortable office, situated above the noisy bar where he had started out, he explained my next job. Word was a group of punks were planning to raid one of our liquor warehouses, and he wanted to show them just how dumb that idea was. Doherty also figured it was about time his son got a piece of the action. Mickey was a good kid with plenty of guts, but the job ahead wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. He’d need someone to protect him, someone his father could trust to keep an eye out for him. That’s where I came in. We were to meet up with two guys at the warehouse; they’d be setting up the place for an ambush. Could be fun.

Later in the evening Mickey and I set off. It looked to be a rainy night, with ominous clouds moving over the opposite bank of the river. By the time we got to the docks a cold wind was picking up. We parked a short distance away from the warehouse. As we got out of the car we checked our guns and buttoned our coats. “You dealt with these bastards before?” Mickey asked. “Yeah.” What else was there to say? Doherty had been involved in a long running feud with these goons a couple of years back, and I’d put a number on their backs. Just a small-time gang with big plans.

Silently we walked towards the warehouse, a light rain forming pools along the barely illuminated street. Mickey’s round face was settling into a frown, his bushy eyebrows lowering over his thoughtful eyes. It wasn’t an easy thing, knowing you were going to kill people. At least, not the first time. I figured he’d get used to it.

Two blocks away we turned into an alley and headed towards the docks. By now the rain was pelting down making visibility tough. We hurried along the darkening river, seeking shelter from the blinding rain. Mickey got to the warehouse and looked for through a window. “Lights are out” he muttered. Good. At least those two guys weren’t idiots.

Moving through the crates scattered around the docks we found an emergency exit. Mickey loitered near the only working light along the wall. “Wait here.” I said as I turned the handle. The comparative warmth inside was comforting after the chilling weather outside. Just as I was getting ready to let Mickey in I stopped in my tracks. Ahead, behind a pile of crates two feet were visible. Blood was slowly forming a pool around the corpse of one of the men we were supposed to meet. Instantly the old instincts kicked in, and I jumped through a window to my left. At that moment the ambush was sprung, and a hail of bullets passed through the air my body had occupied moments ago.

Bleeding from numerous cuts I rolled out from the debris and ran through the alley towards the river. Diving behind some crates I glanced at the place where I’d left Mickey. The wall near the light was smeared with blood, beneath which Mickey lay slumped against the brickwork with a gaping hole in his head, his chest a mass of bloody bullet wounds. “Shit” I muttered. Doherty would need to be told. Suddenly shouts rang out; I’d been spotted. A silhouette of a man holding a gun appeared on the roof of the warehouse. As a flash of lightning illuminated the figure I aimed and shot twice. The first bullet entered his shoulder, putting off his aim; the second bullet went through his forehead, killing him.

The attackers fired on my position, driving wooden splinters from the crate into my forearm. Time to go. As I ran back through the alley a figure appeared at the end. Knowing the futility of my action I raised my pistol, but there was never a chance. It all seemed to happen so slowly: the firing of his pistol briefly illuminated the alley while the bullet entered to the right of my stomach; all feeling left my legs, causing me to stumble and fall; the ground slowly rising towards me, the sickening impact with harsh asphalt. As I rolled over I was greeted with the distinctly unpleasant sight of a shotgun pointed straight at my face.

So here I am. Not the way I was hoping to go, but these things happen. With rain still pelting down on my face I look up at the gunman. He stares back down at me with unmoving grey eyes. He’s seen it before, just as I have. A quick nod, one professional to another, and he raises the weapon. Then it all ends.



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I'll give it a go, more for the practise than anything else as it's my first. I hope you enjoy it.

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Brother Fear had left the monastery 20 days ago, in this time he had travelled down through the mountain passes and foothills before emerging into the farmland that had held the great city of the first Father Soul’s day. The city was long dead now and most of the stones had been removed by farmers to build their own homes. The monk travelled alone as all the ones who felt the need to travel the land did at first; the start of the journey was the time to find himself and hone the skills taught to him.

He spent the days walking and landing aid where it was needed and the nights sleeping under the stars or in a barn if it was offered. As he walked this day he thought back to the day his parents enrolled him in Gods service, he was 5 years old and by far the smallest child there, his name was gained due to his timidity and starting at shadows. He was the same right up to his 8th birthday when he began to learn the arts of war, he was still the smallest boy there, and always would be, but he took to the training as if he was destined for this alone. He kept his name for a different reason now, for now he showed no fear and often, in the first days, exploded into a berserker rage; it took years for him to learn to contain the rage. Fear was always at the top of his class and, in the years following his mastery of his rage, excelled beyond any other.

Later he felt the calling to leave the safety of the monastery and travel the land so applied to Father Soul for permission.

On this day as he passed a river that opened into a wide pool he decided to make camp early and did so a way back from the pool. The sun was shining and it was hard to think of any evil in the world, and besides, as soon as he saw the pool he wanted to swim. He stripped to his trousers and padded off to the pool. He cleaned the dirt from his clothes and laid them out to dry then waded into the pool to swim. The water was cold at first but he quickly became accustomed to it and it was very pleasant to float in the water with the sun beating down from above, after a while he emerged and headed back to camp.

As he approached his camp he heard voices raised in argument and as he got nearer he saw 5 men searching through what little was in his pack. One of the men heard him as he approached and called to his friends, when the rest of them saw him they spread out to form a semi-circle in front of him.

“What can I do for you Brothers” asked Fear.

The largest man in the centre of the semi-circle snorted and said “Brothers he calls us, well if we are brothers he can share his gold with us”

“I have no gold” replied Fear “I travel the land and work for my food and lodgings, anything else I need God supplies. You have already searched my pack; you saw that there was no gold.”

At this the large man grew red in the face “No-one travels without gold, you must have buried it somewhere, give it to us and we might let you live” he said patting his sword hilt.

“Why the talk of death” asked Fear “What I have you are free to share, but I have no gold and cannot give what I do not have.”

“You think you can mock me” cried the man as the rest of the man readied their weapons, there was one bow, two clubs, one held an axe and the leader had the only sword. “Give me what I want or you die here”

Placing his clothes on the ground Fear straightened “I have no wish to hurt you, but know that I will defend myself”

At this the leader laughed and his men sniggered, they saw a man who stood at only five and a half feet and lean with it, if they noted that he moved like a dancer they were five to his one. The leader wrenched his sword free of the scabbard as the man with the bow let fly, Fear swayed to the side as the arrow narrowly missed his chest and reached to his belt. Steel flashed in the afternoon sun as the shuriken flew across the camp site and buried itself in the leader’s throat. When they heard the gurgling cry two men dropped their clubs and ran for the trees, the other two looked at each other then the bowman reached for the fallen sword

“That was our cousin you killed, bastard, and I’ll have your heart for it” yelled the one who now held the sword and both men rushed at Fear.

Fear spun low and right and took the axemans legs from under him as the sword flashed over his head, continuing his spin into the air Fear’s foot connected with the swordsman’s head and launched him from his feet to lie in a heap his neck broken. The remaining man lurched to his feet and paused to look at the men on the ground.

“There is no reason for more death” said Fear

Looking up the man answered “My cousin and my brother” and lashed out furiously with the axe.

Ducking under the axe Fear hit him with the heel of his hand smashing the cartilage of his nose and sending the splinters into his brain, the man was dead before he hit the ground.

Looking around Fear sighed, gathering his things he repacked his backpack. After one last look he set out again, the afternoon was not as beautiful as it had seemed only an hour ago.

http://www.dimeolas.com/0409d.jpg
Hi all, been a long time for me. I just wanted to post an example of my work. What I will do is to give the winner my email and we will figure out what you want.
Good luck gentlemen,
Dimeolas

Out of the morning mist a shadow slithered unseen into the camp.
it made no sound as it moved but it was solid, its jet black pupils slithered from side to side taking in the entire camp in a matter of moments.
the air was cloying with the smell of withering burning death. smoke rose in a solid gray stream, covering the sky.
thunder rumbled in the distance, a growl that shook the air and somehow emanated the horrors which will soon arrive.
all was quiet as the thing wrapped its hand around the electrified fence, it made no show of the pain it undoubtedly felt as its muscular ulcerous fingers bent and broke the metal links that made up the fence.
its twisted fingers snapped and rent each chunk of metal until there was a gaping hole, it pushed its body through the hole and into the quiet camp.
The towers high above swooped lights about the floor of the camp, over the shacks where the skeletal creatures slept in starvation and fear.
and suddenly the light touched the creature and it paused. the creature did not make a move to avoid the all convicting glare but started up at the tower.
two men sat up there, one guided the light with one hand while rest the other upon the mg34 that was attached to the side.
he sat stock still his eyes locked with those of the thing, its horrid black eyes staring into his light blue ones.
his comrade walked over and gazed out to see what had so perplexed his friend. seeing the thing he raised his mp43 and took aim.
but he was to slow, for his own comrade drew his luger and pumped three shells into the SMGer.
a look of shock passed over the mans face as he looked at his friend slumped and bleeding, and he tried to scream but he could not.
because there was someone else in his head, like fire in his skull it blanketed his conscious and stifled the scream he wanted to let free.
and so that overpowering force pushed him to take a step forward, and another, pushing his legs until he was pressed right up against the wooden barrier that separated him from a 30 foot drop.
and suddenly that barrier was pointless as the being within his mind ordered him to put his leg up on the barrier and leap into open space, and so he did.
and in the last second of the fall the fire left his mind and he had control once more, so he executed the only act he had power to do, scream.
with a crunch the body landed at the creatures feet, a little chuckle escaped the creatures throat.
he took a few steps towards the next tower where the guards sat blissfully unaware until there minds were consumed by a violent force, one watched in horror as his brother in arms pulled a grenade from his belt.
the blast blew apart the tower and threw the camp into wakefulness. an Unteroffizer rushed out of the nearest barracks and was quickly taken by the creature, his mind free unlike the others but some invisible physical force pushed his arms to his sides and began to drag him.
to the horror of the 50 or so soldiers that had arrived on the scene the officer screamed as the unholy force dragged him closer and closer to the electric fence.
he kicked his legs and struggled with all his might but showing a lack of patience the officer was suddenly hurled backwards where he landed on the electric fence spread eagle, his eyes were wide with horror staring at the shocked soldiers.
the force pinned him to the fence he screamed and went into violent convulsions his limbs flailing as the electricity carved paths through his body.
a violent maniacal laugh poured out of the creature as all eyes shifted from the still convulsing officer to him.
he, it was tall at least 2 meters tall. his body scared but under the skin rippled muscles, his black hair and eyes him seem merciless, and so he was.
and then he spoke, his voice was completely inhuman, it was deep and cold, it sounded mettalic like metal scraping upon metal, almost synthasized.
"its the day of judgment and you god is calling" it crooned as it stalked twards the petrified SS troops.
"now i want you to think of all the horrid, barbaric things you've ever done" it said "that way you will go straight to hell when i kill you" and then it lauged.
one brave foolish soldier shoulder his rifle. the creature pointed at the fools head and some unknown force struck him snapping his head back and shattering his spine.
as the body slumped to the ground the creature said "and when you meet the gods tell them that the master of puppets sends his regards" and he charged.
nmost turned and fled but smome stayed devoted to there poisonous madness and tried to shoot him. as there fingers laid upon there triggers he was upon then. lashing out with invisible chains he struck into them breaking each of them one by one. none dared to get close to him but it was no matter as he entered the group his chain lashed out wrapping around the waist of one soldier he hurled him skyward where he would then plummet to his death.
chains whipped out and smashed into ones torso collapsing lungs and hearts. a liquid silver chain lashed out striking the skull of one which exploded his head like a watermelon.
it went like that for a moment, in a ring of death the master of puppets broke each of them like rag dolls.
Those who ran did not get far, and that night the master of puppets alternately laughed and cried as he walked away from the smoldering remains of the death camp.

srry, its so long (still under a tousand ~;))but i got kinda caught up lol

Here's the opening in my present story in the .com forum.

OPENING MOVES

The city of Rome, the eternal city forged in blood, destined to greatness and favoured by the Gods. The city of Romulus. After hundreds of years of war the Italian peninsula was mostly under Roman rule. Rome’s sheer military power had made the rest of the cities submit to Rome, either by choice or by force. Either way it was the 600 men of the Roman Senate that ruled the Latin lands. And with power follows responsibility. To uphold the republics safety and ensure it’s survival the Senate and the city of Rome held the power to field several legions that were to respond to the Senate’s whims, legions that fed the lands of Latinium with endless streams of blood with their warfare. Today, the powerful family of Julii upheld Rome’s urge to fight. They battled the Gaul hill tribes to the north of the Roman republic. A war that brought them increased power and influence with every victory they collected. To the west the family of the Scipii, the wealthiest and by many reckoned to be the most powerful family of Rome (if by nothing else than their sheer economic might), had made land fall on Sicily. With a diplomatic Coupe the Gras, they had taken control over the city of Messana, right under the nose of the powerful Carthaginians. In the centre and to the east the Brutii held their influence. The ancient family of devious politicians ruthlessly holds control over the Senate. With their network of spies and diplomats they were among the decision makers in the Roman hierarchy. And it is these three families that will shape tomorrows Rome and only the Gods know who will come out on top.

In Rome, as almost everywhere, the decisions were not made in the main arena but on the sidelines. Two men slowly walked through the great garden, one of many in the eternal city, in soft conversation. As opposed to the many philosophers, senators and even a couple of lovers or two, these two did not take in the great beauty the garden had to offer. Even though they were given great berth by the rest of the gardens occupants. But then again the men in question was not just you’re average Roman Patrician. The eldest, a tall and prominent figure dressed in the finest of cloths, gave off a feeling that he was used to get what he wanted. If seers set their eyes on him they would see his commanding aura shrouding his entire being as in a veil. He was none other than proconsul Flavius Julius, patriarch of house Julii, one of the most powerful men in Rome and a war hero. By his side, a younger version of himself walked confidently. Flavius son Vibius Julius was a Senate favorite after his many victorious battles against the Gaul’s. These two had cleansed Etruria and Umbria of foreign threats a few years ago and were spoken highly of throughout Rome. For this remarkable achievement Flavius were given command as proconsul of the northern provinces of Etruria and Umbria, increasing their power stance even more. The house of Julii had suddenly become a powerhouse and was now mentioned in the same sentence as the Brutii and Scipii. And with new power comes new threats. The Brutii family recognized the growing threat and had put the family under a close watch. The family’s spymaster had dedicated several spies to this newly developed danger.

“How did the meeting with Publia Sempronius go? They accepted?” Vibius showed obvious apprehension as he awaited his father’s answer. The further growth of their house demanded expansion and the plebian leader Sempronius held a vital position in furthering house Julii’s quest for power. With the plebeians on their side they would be certain that further resources like men and money would befall them. Resources they needed to grow and uphold the war effort. “We need worry no more. They have accepted to vote with us. Two more cohorts have been assigned our two Legions. Although it was costly, I promised them a great number of slaves and a trade agreement. Much of the trade and slaving from the new provinces will be given to the plebeians, thereby robbing us of much needed currency. Damn those Plebeians, all they ever think about is money.” Flavius took a deep breath to calm him self, now was not the time or the place. They would just have to deal with the greed of the Plebeians later. “I have started the process of convincing the Senate that Leguria is vital to further secure Roman rule in the north. I’ve even ordered a few farms on the border to be burnt to further our cause.” Flavius flinched as he saw the horrified expression of his son as he processed the last sentence. “It has to be done and worse, the village has to be sacked and sold in to slavery. To Sempronius off course, part of the deal and it will help train the new men before we get cart blanc from the Senate on the war on the Gaul’s.” Behind them a man slowly slipped away after following them for the better part of their stroll. His job was done; Luca would be most interested in what he had heard. As he walked away he pondered the ease of his spying, wondering if it was intentionally by Flavius to let him hear or not. This wouldn’t have worked with the Scipii, and the Brutii would have all out killed him for the effort. Political spying was after all their livelihood, and bad performance was rewarded with death. Again he praised his luck on being on the right side as he started to lie out his messages throughout the city of Rome for Luca Brutus Antonius to find.

APOLLO LUKEIOS

A Short Story by

The Shadow One


1

I love my new research assistant.

Nine years of teaching the hidden mysteries of the human mind to an endless ocean of students with thick glasses and bad complexions, and finally the Gods see fit to bless me with this radiant display of vitality and beauty. Cascades of long hair, dark as shadows with streaks of rich mahogany. Mysterious, volatile gray eyes set within a perfect sea of mocha. If there's a flaw –

"You should smile more, Atremia." I say as we walk down the aseptic-smelling corridor.

"You might not like my smile," she replies. Then she asks about the next patient.

I sigh. "Name is Cameron. Came in last night. Claims to have seen the Greek God Apollo. Works as an accountant for the firm that manages our accounts, I believe. Works long hours, lives alone. Probably suffering from acute exhaustion and delusions brought on by too little sleep, an overactive imagination, and a desperate, solitary existence. Never good for a man to be alone, I say. What do you think?"

Atremia doesn't offer an opinion.

I unlock the door. The room is dark shadows, the shades drawn. I call out: "I'm turning on the light."

"Go ahead," a soft voice replies.

I flip the switch. Lying on the narrow bed is a thin young man in his mid-twenties. His features, like his voice, are soft and feminine, his eyes blue, his hair a Scandinavian blonde that would look almost white in the sunlight. "How are you today, Cameron?"

"I'm fine." He swings his legs off the bed, sitting up. "Are you my doctor?"

"I'm the psychiatrist assigned to your case. This is my assistant, Atremia." I wave a hand in her direction, my fingers brushing her jacket. A spark, like warm ecstasy flows up my arm.

"Hello." He nods at me, smiles at Atremia.

I assume my down-to-business voice. "Let's shed some light on the subject. Atremia, will you open the blinds?"

"No," he says quickly. "Please don't."

Aha, I think. Already the psychosis reveals itself. "Why not? Is something wrong?"

"Well, it's just that – he might find me."

"Who?"

Cameron hesitates, staring at the floor. "You don't believe me, do you?"

I motion Atremia to one of the patient-proof chairs, while I take another. "I haven't heard anything to disbelieve yet. Why don't you try me?"

He smiles slightly. For the first time, I noticed his mouth is sensual, heart-shaped. With a face like that, his childhood must have been a nightmare.

"Well," he begins, "I went to the park for lunch. I go there often, to get away from the chaos of the office. I can walk in the woods and fields. And there's a creek there, people wade in it. A bridge crosses the creek, there's woods on both sides. Cross the bridge and follow the path and you come to a series of open fields where people play soccer. And that's where I saw him."

"Who?" I asked, opening my notebook.

He didn't answer for a moment. Then, he whispered, "Apollo."

"The God Apollo?"

"Yes, the God Apollo."

I assumed my quiet-patient voice. "What did he look like?"

"Golden."

"You mean, like, solid gold?"

"No, of course not. Golden – like dazzling perfection. A perfect body, perfect smile, perfect hair, perfect everything. The kind of person you can't help but fall in love with."

I coughed. "Did you . . . fall in love?"

He snorted. "Didn't you hear me? I couldn't help myself."

Glancing down, I wrote "homoerotic fantasies" in my notebook. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing. He just talked to me."

"What did he say?"

"I don't really remember. Not all of it, anyway. It was like a feeling, more than anything. A feeling of warm joy. He said I was – "

"Yes?"

"Well, beautiful."

I wrote the word "egotistic."

"And then he said this: ‘I'll come and get you. Not now, but soon. You can come and live with me.' But that's when I got scared."

"Why?" I ask.

"Because he's a powerful God and who knows what he'll do to me. Besides, I'm not gay."

"Of course not. Can you describe his hair color?"

Cameron frowns. "Well – no, I don't remember."

"Eyes?"

Another pause. "No, just that they were beautiful."

"I see." I close my notebook and rise quickly. "That's enough for today. Try to rest and take it easy. If you get bored, there's television." I motion to Atremia and we step from the room.

"Well, there you have it," I say, as soon as the door is closed and locked. "Illusions of fantasy. So fresh and new, he hasn't even worked out the details yet."

"Do you really think so, doctor?" Atremia's voice is pure music.

"Absolutely. I'd bet my career."

2

I'm walking the same aseptic hallway later that afternoon when I freeze, my eyes staring ahead in horror. The door to Cameron's room stands wide open.

"Atremia!" I cry, running for the room.

"Yes, doctor?" She is already there, standing in the middle of the narrow room, the shades drawn back, the wind whistling through the open window, blowing out her long hair. Familiar as I am with her beauty, I've never seen her like this before, radiant and transcendent. My mind aches to look at her.

"Where is Cameron?" I demand.

She doesn't answer. Instead, she dispenses a laugh so full of demented delight and frightening potential that I'm convinced my mind will shatter like glass. Then I see something that convinces me my mind is already blown.

Outside the window, a tree, a slender laurel tree, trembles and shudders in the act of growing upward, sunlight coloring the leaves to pure gold, branches lifting towards the overhead sun in an act of ecstatic worship. And in the bark, the forming, twisting bark of the tree, I see all that remains of Cameron's feminine face.

Impossible.

But Atremia laughs again and I can't keep the scream from lunging from my mouth.

[Word Count: 999 per MS Word (not counting titles)]

*********

Just a note of thanks to Monk and everyone else who took the time and effort, and donated the prizes, to make this contest possible.

The Shadow One

:duel:

Been gone awhile -- yes, a long while.

We Who are about to die....


“We’ll I don’t know what your all so miserable about, I’ve always been a great fan of the Games - I can’t believe I’m actually getting to take part. This is amazing!”

“Your insane, leave me alone, just stop talking ok?”

“Jesus will save me, Jesus will save me, Jesus will save me.”

“Oh great, I’m going to be fed to the lion with the Christians. That’s just great that is.”

“What does it matter, I think I’m more upset about the fed to the lion than who I’m with.”

“Well everyone will think I’m a Christian won’t they? I‘ve got a reputation to worry about.”

“Is everyone in this place mad?”

“Jesus will save me, Jesus will save me, Jesus will save me.”

“Hey no one else is going to get fed to the lion.”

“HOORAY”
“Awwww…”
“Thank Jesus!”

“They just set a Gorilla on it - It wasn’t pretty.”

“I thought Gorillas were quiet timid creatures?”

“I’d say this one is more sadistic and imaginative personally.”

“Ohh I hope I get to meet one of the Gladiators, that’d be f**king A that would.”

“Right you ‘orrible lot, oo’s next? You’ll do.”

“No NOT meeee, NOT meeeeeee…..”

“Poor little sod”

“Hey wow, he’s a bit of a nutter this guy - he just bit the Gorilla!”

“Ha ha, I think he’s going to…..”

“Oh”

“I think I’m going to be sick again.”

“Jesus will save me. Jesus will save me. Jesus will save me.”

“I didn’t know people could lean backwards so far.”

“They can’t.”

“He just did.”

“I think that’s called being snapped in two by a rampaging gorilla. Its not a form of exercise likely to catch on.”

“You know I think they’ve filed that Gorillas teeth to points. It shouldn’t have been able to bite that guys head off like that.”

“Jesus will save me, Jesus will save me, Jesus will save me.”

“Right, let ’ave another one.”

“NOOO… Take the Christian, THE CHRISTIAN!!!”

“That’s an original approach. I wonder if the Gorilla understands begging for mercy.”

“Hmmm, judging by that I’d say no.”

“Unless he was begging for the Gorilla to do that to him.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“Hey… did you hear that - Maximus Killerus is coming on later. Wow, I’m his biggest fan. I hope I get to meet him.”

“I’m just ignoring you now.”

“Jesus will save me, Jesus will save me, Jesus will save me.”

“You’d think that guy could at least tried to last a little longer, for our sakes I mean.”

“Why? Are you enjoying it in here?”

“Urrrm, no not really.”

“Have you ever seen Maximus Killerus? He’s like completely great.”

“Heh Heh, ‘nother one for Mr Gorilla.”

“What, no wait you don’t understand - I didn’t do it. I DIDN’T DO…..”

“Hey look the Gorilla’s escaping!”

“What!?”

“Its just hauled itself over the parapet into the crowd!”

“Ha Ha, serve ‘em right the bloodthirsty sods!”

“Awww yeah, this is why I love the Arena, you never know what’s going to happen next!”

“That Gorilla sure can shift it!”

“Too right - Go Gorilla GO!”

“It’s heading for the emperors box!”

“Ha Ha, I never knew Praetorian guards heads came off so easily.”

“Look out Gorilla… LOOK OUT.”

“Awww, that was a dirty trick.”

“Are you kidding - that was top notch arena entertainment. That running dive with outstretched Gladius was technically flawless! Wow, this is the best afternoon I’ve ever had at the arena.”


“I have a funny feeling it might get worse.”

“What’s coming out next?”

“Umm its some guy…”

“Is it Jesus?”

“I don’t know - Is Jesus 7 foot tall and the same across at the shoulders?”

“Oh..”

“Hey it is.. It really is…”

“Right, lets be ‘aving the Christian.”

“No, Take me, Take me!”

“Jesus will save me, Jesus will save…”

“TAKE MEEEE.”

“I thought you were having a good time in here? Wadda you want to leave for?”

“Do you know who that is out there? That’s only the Dacian Disemboweller! I’d give anything to meet him.”

“Oh….. Right.”

“Hey, A Jesus just saved the Christian!”

“What?”
“Really?”
“No way!!!”

“Only kidding - I tell you what though, for a little guy he sure does bleed a lot.”

“Blerugh”

“Oh thanks, I was really hoping someone would be sick on me today.”

“Right then, oo’s next?”

“Meeeee… Meeeee.”

“Fair ‘Nuff lad. S’always a pleasure to get an enthusiastic one, y’know that?”




“Look at him, he seems so happy.”

“Strange that.”

“Yeah, I mean most people find that sort of thing incredibly painful.”

“It was quite obliging of the gladiator really, carving his autograph into his chest.”

“Oh yeah, he can’t do enough to help others that guy.”

“Oh won’t you all just shut up. I don’t want to know what’s going on out there, Ok?”

“Fine I will.”

“Cor, what a miserable sod. What’s your problem eh?”

My Agincourt

"Ok, Ok! let me get my breath back!"
"Just tell us... twice?"
"ugh!" Oweyn gasped for breath whilst bent over with his arm on Rubens shoulder;
"no, more."
"three times?" asked Rubens.
"keep guessing."answered Oweyn.
"For God sake Oweyn, just tell us!" Shouted Rubens.
"Well, from what they said, five."

Oweyn was everyones friend. If you wanted to know something, find replacement weapons or armor, Oweyn was the man to do it. He had friends everywhere. He had just been talking to another group of archers further down the line and they had heard news of the French army that were to confront them.

Oweyn, Rubens and Benlin were life long friends, they had been called up together to serve and it was a miracle they were still together. Rubens was of the true warrior class, he had a story for every scar. His armour was a mongrel collection of items from his sorry victims and his sword, ironically, was never sharpened yet he killed endlessly those who stood in his way on the battlefield especially against the Welsh but that is another story.

As for Benlin, well that was me...

That day, myself and Rubens had been trying to get out of Oweyn the suspected numbers that were marching on us after our fun at Honfleur, we had spilt so much French blood on this soil and I was under no illusion of what was to face us. When I heard the news I knew I was a dead man, twenty five thousand men or thereabouts! can you think of it? that many against our small band of starving, diseased men. Of course Rubens took it as he always did.

"Well anyway, now I know the good news I better head back to my boys, they will want to hear what a glorious day the King has delivered us."

Rubens was part of the 'Old Guard' as he called it, he was in with a small group in the men at arms and they were without fear, either that or they really did not think they would die, but then why would they? They had always been the first in to fight and the last out. The worst that came of them was a bloodied sword and the odd arrow wounds that were merely brushed off as scratches. They called themselves the old guard because they took it as a personal mission to keep one eye on the King whilst fighting with the other. To you and I they were insane.

I was an archer back then along with Oweyn and we had just been forcing in our stakes for the oncoming onslaught. I expected to die that day...

"Archers make yourselves ready!" screamed a voice down the line. By now silence had descended down the entire line and only a faint rumble could be heard. In the distance a vast field of metal emerged.

"Good Luck Benlin" Oweyn said to me in a frightened tone, he looked at me with a tear in his eye, he was as tough as they came, but this day, well this day was like no other for me. Oweyn always seemed to know what was going to happen. Ironically this battle he didn't reassure me that I would live, which at the time I did not think anything of. It wasn't until...........

"Archers ready!" Before I could reply to Oweyn our order came.
"Draw!"
"Loose!" The volley of arrows slid from our bows and whistled through the air and then silence.
"Archers draw!"
"Loose!" Again volley after volley we fired, the site was pitiful, the French were slowing down, their crossbowmen hardly touching our line and now their cavalry falling and sliding all over the field, what a sight it was. Some men were up to there knees in mud, others just their ankles, whilst the more unfortunate where up to their waists in this bog. Our hail of arrows seemed to be effecting the foot soldiers, the cavalry however seemed little effected by us rather the ground beneath them seemed to be there ultimate foe as they slid and piled up.

Then the order came through.

"Advance!" past our line our own men at arms and cavalry pushed forward, my King himself advancing cheering us on. Then I saw Rubens!

"Here we go again Benlin!" He laughed at me as he advanced followed by his men who rushed off before him, all I could hope was that he would kill my five as I could not see if my arrows had penetrated. Although the hail of arrows brought so many men to there knees, we never had that personal bitterness with our enemy as those men at arms.

As I saw Rubens move on he suddenly jolted to a stand still and raised his sword, I looked but could not see what his eyes had caught and I broke my line and ran over to him simply out of impulsion to protect a friend. As I was running a French Knight was charging him down and before I could reach him he was driven into the ground by the horses power, I heard his armour break and his bones crack as he was crushed. I was struck with fear. My friend was dead...

Looking back now it wasn't all that painful for me. there was a cold feeling through my chest, it felt strange, I was confused. Whilst I had seen to Rubens the same Knight had thrust his sword through my back. I remember feeling so very cold, so weak, I collapsed to the earth. The stench of that mud that day I will never forget. I was dying. For me it was the end that day as I lay by my friend. As I drifted into my dark sleep I could see the Kings colours. As I fell away from that field, he looked at me, the King looked at me for one split second as I lay dying there that day.

I had done my duty.

As for Oweyn, well who knows where he is now or what happened to him, he can probably still be found trying to sell some French armour to our own men. One thing is for sure though I will see him again, I want my money back for that damn back armour he sold me!

https://i11.photobucket.com/albums/a...teng/Story.jpg

As I sit here, looking at the map of our Empire, I cannot help but think about the man who gave me the courage and strength I needed to become Emperor.


To my father

When I was growing up, I always knew you loved us, the family you could not take with you. Maybe you could not be around as much as some of my friends’ fathers were, but you always told us you were proud of us. No matter what we did and how small we thought it was, you sent us letters from the front, telling us to keep up the good work and make you and our mother proud. And we always did our best.
When mother was getting sick and you were fighting the Turks, trying to protect your Empire, every night my sister and I would write you, telling you how mother wanted to see you again before she passed. The doctors did all they could, but she got worse and worse. When you were captured because of treachery, mother seemed to know you had been taken. The very day that damnable Dux gave you to the Turks, her resolve hardened and she took over control of the Empire. I was only 15 at the time, but mother knew she must protect the Empire while the negotiations were underway. I could see her failing, a little more each day. Sister and I slowly began to take the reigns. We knew we had to get you back before she died. We knew that we had to hold on and give you an Empire to come home to.
On your arrival in Constantiople, fresh from being released, you ran straight to the Blachernae. You did not see the Patriarch, nor address the people. You ran, as fast as you could through the city, your guardsmen struggling to keep up. I will never forget the look on your face when you opened the door and saw her, with Sister and I by her side, in that bed. You looked at her with tears in your eyes as you slowly walked in, and took her by the hand.
“You did well…to get back…in time,” mother said. I remember, for none of us could say anything. Sister and I were holding each other and mothers’ hand, weeping. You were standing there, the Emperor of the greatest Empire on Earth, crying. None of us could say anything as she breathed her last.
After that, you were a bastion of energy. You fixed the internal problems that had arisen during your incarceration. However, the terms of your release had been harsh. We, as an empire, had lost Lesser Armenia, Anatolia, Cyprus and Rhodes in the treaty. The loss of income could have destroyed the Empire, shaken as it had been by your capture and the rebellion of the Dux. But you managed to persevere.
Your death came as a shock to everyone. I remember rushing to you, in the woods, and holding your hand while you whispered your last words to me.
“My son, you have become a good man. I’ve always loved you and your sister, more than anything in the world. Make me proud.” I could not hold back the tears. I knew I was going to miss you, the best father a boy could ask for.
Sister and I were devastated. To lose you, so soon after mother…we were stricken. But the man you had appointed to watch over us, Monk Photius, would not let us shirk our duties. I was old enough to become Emperor in word and deed. Thanks to your foresight, you had placed people loyal to our family in every important position in the Empire. The transition could not have gone more smoothly, internally.
But, as I am sure you could have predicted, the Turks and Egyptians immediately moved on the Empire. Our armies in Nicaea were routed and only the brilliant actions of Cousin Manuel just outside Trebizond kept the Turks from over running that theme. On my 18th birthday, I was on my way to confront the Egyptians who were fighting with the Turks for Anatolia, remembering you and the way you always lead your army. That memory, and the memory you inspired in our soldiers, gave us the ability to crush the Turks, and then annihilate the Egyptians. I will not bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that I followed your example. I followed up the victories by running the Turks back to the Hell from which they came. The Egyptians, bereft of leadership with the death of your old nemesis Aziz, were nearly destroyed. I marched into Antioch with the governors blessing. Jerusalem, the City of God, welcomed me with open arms. I heard that they were expecting you to arrive. They remembered how magnanimous you were in victory, and I followed your example. Measures were taken to ensure the loyalty of the populace; celebrations were thrown to honor the return of our Faith to God’s land. But in all the triumphs, the best complement I received was from old Monk Photius, when I returned to Constantinople.
“You are your father’s son,” he told me with a smile. That is all I had ever dreamed to be.
You taught me well father. Every battle, every siege, every victory, I thanked God for your example. And now, our Empire stretches farther than it has for hundreds of years. Without your guidance, leadership, experience and love, I do not think our Empire would have been able to withstand your death. I know I almost did not.
But the last words you spoke were always on my mind, no matter the circumstance that faced me. I would not let you down. I would not surrender to despair. I would carry our people forward.
I hope I have made you proud.

With all my love,

Lord

”Lord, give me the power to endure what I cannot change” the man in the ragged brown cloak chanted while walking over the old oak floor. He made his way to the northern wall, and knelt by a small cross. He sat there silently for several hours.
After night closed in, the critters around this shack could hear the fierce chanting from the man in the ragged brown cloak. “Lord! Give me the power to endure what I cannot change!” he chanted out in the night. When the moon had reached its height, the chanting had started to drop in volume and could soon only be heard by the keenest hearing animals.
A bat flew past one of the few windows in search of insects. And it heard the quiet mumbling which the chanting had evolved to. “Lord, give me to power to endure what I cannot - should not - change” it heard from the man in the ragged brown cloak.

A rabbit jumped around in the clear morning, and could see in the distance, a mushroom cloud in the sky.

EDIT: I forgot the title, could I add it? (No editing rule)

EDIT 2: I added a title, I sent a pm to monk before he dicided not to judge us. (computer trubble, no chance before now to check the forum)

This is my story. It is a bit out of place in all the blood and violence: my story is, ahem, different. It is 716 words long and without a title. I hope you like it. Feel free to comment on it, though please do so via PM.

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   As the first light beams of a new day entered the hotel room, she lay in bed, watching the patterns the light created on the ceiling and thinking about what happened last night. She sighed and stepped out of bed. Her clothes had been thrown carelessly over a chair. She picked them up and walked towards the bathroom. The bedroom door next to hers was open. She couldn’t resist the temptation of looking in. He was still in bed. He had thrown the covers on the floor and slept under a single sheet to make the hot night more bearable. His crumpled clothes were laid out on the floor.
   She leaned against the doorpost and mused that he was actually quite pretty. Not handsome, but pretty in a boyish sort of way. Only his expression didn’t quite fit, but now he was asleep and his face expressionless, he was pretty.
   Suddenly, he opened his eyes and looked straight at her. “Good morning,” he said in a clear voice.
   She stepped back instinctively, but answered, “Good morning,” in the same unaffected voice.
   An awkward silence fell. Finally, she said, “You awake quickly.”
   “I have been awake for several hours,” he answered. She didn’t reply. After a while he added, “I have been thinking about the usual things you think of when you lie in bed in the morning. About what happened last night, about what I am going to do today, about whether I should stay here or go to the toilet.” The last words were said with half a grin, and he moved his upper body in an upright position.
   “Be my guest,” she answered, smiling as well.
   “I already went two hours ago.”
   “At five o’clock?” she asked in amazement.
   “Yet lag, I suppose,” he said, half-shrugging.
   “It is only a time difference of one hour,” she replied, as if interrogating him.
   “So? I always get up at six.”
   Another silence fell. This time, she was the one to break it. “About last night –” she started.
   “Not before I’ve had a shower,” he interrupted, not quite looking at her. She stared at him for a moment. Then she turned and walked to the bathroom quickly. As she closed the bathroom door she saw he was lying down again, but his eyes were open and staring at the wall. For a moment, she thought she could see them flash toward the bathroom door.
   She took a short shower and dressed. As she stepped out of the bathroom, she saw he had gotten out of bed and was sorting through his clothes. He yawned.
   “Not used to rising early, I see,” she said with a smile.
   “I –” he started, and then stopped. He looked at the wall and shrugged. “Apparently,” he said. She waited for a further reply, but he only felt his cheek, still gazing at the wall. She turned around and stepped into her bedroom.
   She saw him walking past, clothes over his arm and an electric shaver in his hand, but he didn’t look at her. She heard him shave and take a long shower. As she waited, she made a half-hearted attempt at reading, but her eyes kept straying to the window or to the bathroom door.
   As he walked out again, fully dressed, he yawned again.
   “Not used to rising early and not fully awake even after a long shower. You must have very interesting things to do each evening,” she said, smiling. He gave her a stern look, but she returned his gaze and kept her smile.
   Finally, he said, “The petit dejeuner starts at half past seven. It should be lovely quiet now. Shall we have breakfast, miss?” with an inviting gesture towards the door.
   She took a moment before answering, “Yes, I would like some breakfast,” adding, “sir,” with emphasis.
   They did not talk on the way towards the breakfast room. She was determined he should be the first to mention the subject. But he didn’t bring it up when they sat down at a breakfast table. He didn’t say anything at all, apart from asking her to pass this or that or inquiring whether she wanted something. Finally, when breakfast was almost over, he spoke, “About last night –”
   “Yes?” she said urgently...
...
..
.

1000 words precisly, if youre not counting the title, wich i hope you dont

The Stranger's Quest

It was a beautiful night. The sky was bright and the pale moonlight shined upon a rider. If you’d looked closer you’d saw a deadly tired face. From were did this stranger come. Miles away from here that was sure. At an inn he stopped as he dismounted his horse, the stable boy arrived. “Take extra care of my horse,” the stranger asked as he tossed a coin to the boy. Then he stumbled inside the inn.
He asked: “Host can I have a hot meal and a place for the night?”
“Yes you can, stranger,” the host replied. “That will be 17 silver denarii’s.”
The stranger pulled out a little leather sack out of his pocket. With greedy eyes the host looked at it. How more coins the stranger took out of it, the wider the eyes of the host opened. Never had he seen so much money. After he had paid the host he walked back to an empty table in the corner of the inn. He sat there resting for about an hour when his meal arrived. It looked delicious. He ate and he ate, till he could eat no more.
When he was finished the host came to him and asked: “did you enjoyed the meal, Sir?” “Yes I did, it was delicious,” the stranger answered gentle. “Now I would like to know where my room is.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to play some cards with me and those gentlemen over there?”
“No I don’t, I’m very tired and I would like to sleep now. The undertone in the strangers voice made clear that he couldn’t be persuaded to loose his fortune in one night. Now the host had to seek another way.
“Just follow me, Sir,” the host said onderdanig as lead the way upstairs.

In the middle of the night when the stranger was sleeping, the host sneaked into his room. He silently searched for the little leather sack. He was so busy searching that he didn’t noticed that the stranger was awake. His two eyes were waiting to cross the eyes of the host.
“Hello, what are you doing there,” the stranger asked nicely when his eyes crossed that of the host. Stunned by these words the host didn’t answered.
“What are you doing there?” This time the stranger became mad.
“I…eh…I.” That was all the host could bring out. The stranger stood up from his bed. This was where the host was waiting for, he hief his knife and tried to stab the stranger in his back. But with a fast move of the stranger’s leg, the host flew through the room and fell on the hard wooden floor. He lied there dazzled by the hard crash.
“Now I want to know where Sir John’s castle is,” the stranger asked with his normal gentle tone.
“I don’t know where you’re talking about,” was the answer. Without saying anything the stranger reached for his sword. Immediately the host changed his mind and said:
“Go west, go west and ask it there.”
“If you’re lying I shall return.” And he disappeared from the room.

When the sun set, you could see a rider appear on the horizon. No one knew who he was, but he was going west. He quickly got up with a farmer that was bringing his goods to the market.
“Sir John’s castle, where can I find it,” the stranger asked the farmer.
“You must follow this road till it splits in two, then go north,” the cheerful man answered. “Though I wouldn’t go there if I was you.”

As the stranger neared his target the night begun to fall. When he had finally reached Sir John’s castle it was pitch-black. He decided to wait for the day, for the castle gates were then opened. He kneeled on the ground and prayed:

“Oh god, may I succeed in my quest.
Let me finish what tried to finish me once.
May the Ancestor strengthen my hand and guide my blade
I too shall be brought low be death
But until then let me have glory”

Thunder broke the brittle silence of the land. A surge of raw energy lifted the stranger’s body into the air and briefly, in the heart of the flash, he saw the face of god. Glory surged through him and radiance surrounded him. All things were possible with blessings of the Divine.
With these new powers he decided to wait no more and kill the man that haunted him in his dreams for a decade.

He walked straight towards the guards at the gate. Stunned by the mere presence of the Stranger, the nimble guards quickly fell on their knees. He didn’t paid attention to these unholy men, and continued his path as the gates opened by the touch of his magic. A rain of arrows descended but none of them seemed to hurt him. They all fell dead on the ground inches before their target. The soldiers didn’t believe their eyes. That stranger had just survived a vicious rain of deadly arrows. Many fell on their knees and prayed to the Lord to rid them of this devil.

Sir John that had awakened from all the noise. Stumbled down the stairs to the main hall, what he was about to see would haunt him the rest of his short life.
“Do you remember me,” a powerful voice asked. Sir John looked around but saw nobody.
“I’m the son of Leonin Kha, the one you’ve so cowardly killed in his sleep.”
“No…that can’t be.” “You must be dead, no man can rise from his grave.”
“I didn’t died that day, but you did.” “Now I come to finish what you didn’t.”
The stranger pulled out his sword and with one mighty blow he beheaded Sir John.
Seconds after this event the guards came in to only find Sir John dead. The only thing that betrayed that the stranger had once been there was a black cape on the ground.

For a very special friend. :bow:

==================
Cyriaca knelt to the ground as she breathed in the cool, morning air. Her eyes closed in her exhaustion as she could feel her body screaming for water, begging for rest. Yet she couldn’t stop. Her eyes darted open as a ray of sunlight cast through the trees hit her face. Her ears perked up as she sat silent for a moment, listening. There, mingled with the breeze, rolling along the ground. Racing footsteps; her hand strayed to the hilt of her sword and suddenly she sprang from her seat on the ground. Her throat seized up and demanded water but she paid it no heed, she had to keep moving.

The huntress burst from the bush as she came into a path between the heavily wooded areas. A small piece of animal fur dangling from her armor as she breathed heavily, Cyriaca scanned the area around her, the many trees made it impossible to see anything unless… There! A shadow darted from tree to tree, moving as quickly as lighting and melding into shadows before her eyes could identify it. “You’re mine” her face was overcome by a slight smile and her eyes took on a blue glow. Kneeling down slightly she got ready; her hands reached the ground and she looked for the shadow. It would not escape again. Suddenly out from under a high tree it appeared, moving quickly to the west. Without another word Cyriaca sprang from the ground and ran after it, a cloud of dust taking up after her until she disappeared into the bushes once more.

The shadow jumped from side to side in front of her, moving under the safety of the trees. Yet Cyriaca kept pace with it easily, her speed matching the strange object’s easily as they both raced through the wilderness. Her sword clicked and clanged against her belt, drawing the attention of the shadowing object. Reacting to the coming hunter it increased its speed and began to pull away. Cyriaca’s surroundings were but a green blur she moved so fast, and when the object began to move faster her eyes took on a frustrated glare. “Not this time!” she cried as she summoned all her strength and poured it into her legs.

Faster the two went, and slowly the gap began to close. The shadowy object was slowly being overtaken by the hunter. She had him now; Cyriaca reached her hand out as she came closer and closer yet just as she was about to grab hold of it, it vanished right before her eyes. A wave of confusion hit her right before she ran through a wall of green leaves. Her eyes were overcome with light and she became blinded by a wave of warmth and sunlight. A huge gust of air took her as she felt herself falling; the ground below had all but disappeared and as her eyes slowly adjusted she saw why. The object had led her off a ridge. She was overcome with embarrassment that she’d let herself be fooled.

With a loud thud the huntress hit the ground, her legs bending to absorb the recoil; yet the fall was too much. Her legs flipped out from under her and she found herself upon her back with the warm morning sun on her face; a slight pain coursing through her legs and chest. A roar filled her ears; and as she looked to her side she saw a waterfall not far off. A long river ran near her and she now lay upon an open field of green grass. She let out a sigh, realizing her defeat. Slowly Cyriaca’s eyes closed, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on her tired and aching muscles.

As her eyes opened she saw falling toward her green leaves, they drifted down effortlessly like snow and fell beside her. One fluttered and weaved its way upon her face; resting on her nose. The cold leaf felt good to the huntress.

A low growl grabbed her attention, her hand reached to her sword hanging from her belt. Only too find it was gone! Cyriaca’s face flushed with fear, she must have lost it in the fall. Yet her fear turned to amusement when she looked up. For standing over her was a tiger striped cat. In the cat’s mouth sat humbly her sword; the huntress let out a soft laugh as she slowly sat up and looked upon the cat. She reached out and took her sword and nodded in thanks. The cat sat down and lifted a leg, scratching the back of its ear.

Cyriaca just smiled. She grabbed a container from her belt and opened it, squirting a cold liquid into her mouth. Her dehydration melted in a moment as the water soothed her tired muscles. The cat looked upon her, and she upon it. Their eyes met and the huntress laughed.

“I’ll catch you one day Loki; then you’ll be it!” she laughed between pants. Loki just yawned, the game had worn him out.

Tag
By Monk

The Avenger
==========


The pain that would take the very heart of me.

I am on my hands and knees; conquered; broken. The world is filled with blood and death and suffering. I can’t hold my sword; my fingers are weak, like those of a child. Are they mine? Is this broken hand mine? Is this shredded arm mine? Or is this a dream? A midsummer’s dream I fell into under the old oak near my house, a spoiled dream that sprung from some half-digested thought like a corn of sand brings forth a pearl in the shell? This can’t be real… This ghost in the shell…

I touch the grass, beautiful green grass, and smear my blood over it. The grass is so green that it screams in my eyes, but there is not even enough will in me to close my eyelids. It doesn’t seem real either. Only blood is real.

Has the time stopped? Have I stopped? Thoughts come slow, disjointed, like colossal icebergs floating over a dead sea. Shivers run down my back and forearms like the wind sweeps over high grass. Suddenly, there is a sky above me. I see the blue sky and the white clouds, small, few in numbers, sprinkled over the pale blue carpet that is hung above my head. Where are you going? Can I come with you? I think of becoming a cloud, and for a moment I feel myself drifting in the heights, watching myself from far above, lying on the trampled meadow, bleeding, dying. What do I care? It is so peaceful here, high up, away from the ground that must be violated and torn open to even bring forth life. We are all prisoners of the ground, trapped, cursed to be wingless. Sky and the clouds… That is the resurrection. That is the redemption that opposes us every day, sometimes it seems as if it mocks us, sometimes it seems as if it pities us.

I weigh eons. My body is a hull that pulls me down, but I want to go up, up, high and above, away from the jealous fingers of earth and the invisible bonds that tie me to it. I am trapped in my body, I can’t go up, it is a prison of flesh and bones. I am alone.

I would die thousand deaths to see her again.

To touch her face, to look into her eyes, to hear her laughter. Her laughter of thousand smallest, gentlest bells that are swung in a spring breeze. Her eyes like mountain lakes, deep and warm. Her face, like promise, faith and hope, all in one.

Her face covered in blood.

I don’t want to see it, but I see it again. Her face, her gentle, sweet, innoncent face of an angel, covered with dirt and blood. Her eyes, wide and empty, like pieces of glass. Her cry, cut off in half, gone in time, yet captured in my mind, to hollow for an eternity to come.

The dying cry of our unborn child.

Pain returns. As long as there is life, there will be pain, and as long as there is pain, I’ll know I’m alive. I feel the burning once again; my body is my home again. Back to earth, back to pain and suffering…and blood. Blood, running through my veins, blood, on her face, blood, on the green grass. Blood demands, and blood must be served. All things serve the blood.

I open my mouth, and it is wrong and bad but also good and right to feel it as my own again; I scream. I roar. One long, painful, angered shout that comes out of me, gets lost in hundreds of other screams of the battlefield, I can feel my blood gurgling in my throat as this cry of pain and hatred leaves my body, and as it leaves my body, so does the pain returns.

So does the life returns.

Hate. It is feeding me, making me strong, making me forget that I am dying, that my soul has touched the other side already, and came back marked from it. Pain now feeds me too; her face, her lovely face covered with blood is before my eyes again, it is before my waking eyes and I scream again in anger and pain and bitterness that would take the very heart of me.

It is not my muscles that move my body. It is my will, bare, naked will, soaked in anger and pain and bitterness and endless sorrow. I get up, force my limbs to move, stretch my arm, open my hand, close the fingers around my sword. It weighs hundred tons, I will never be able to lift it, and then I see her dying face before me again and I would lift the earth itself out of place, rip it out of its fundaments and hurl it into god forsaken oblivion. The sword now is light as a feather.

My body and my mind, my will that moves me, all is on fire.

I breed in power and breed out my soul. I do not care; all I need is strength. More strength, to spill blood so I may put restless blood to ease. Blood with blood. Pain to pain. Revenge to justice.

I know that I am a great giant of old days, who now walks the earth. Death shell follow me tightly, and it shell collect the souls I leave behind in the blood soaked path that my iron will guides me on.

When love dies, send hate to avenge it.

It was a murderer's moon.
A crow perched on a solitary, decaying tree stump, glimpsing for some fresh carrion in a sea of yellow mud. Like everything else, it was silent. The birds had not sung here for several years and even the stutter of the machine guns and the thunder of the artillery which had turned these once green and pleasant pastures into a place of doom had gone, moved on to somewhere else. All that was left was Death.
Through this barren wilderness trudged a soldier in his khaki great coat, his hand clasping a bayonet hanging from his belt. Though in his early twenties, his hair had already begun to grey and he bore the harrowed look of a man twice his age. Nearing the top of a high knoll, he stopped surveyed this plain of death. The mud which spread all around him was not brown. Instead it was covered with a sickening yellow-brown slime, the residue of countless gas attacks. The stench of death was everywhere. Though all was silent, the man could still hear in his mind the bursts of machine gun fire, the yelps of his former comrades as they were mown down as so many cattle and the dying cries of the wounded as they slowly drowned in the mud.
The man decided to set off again. He had a mission to complete and dangers were everywhere. But above all, he wanted to leave this place of carnage. As he reached the bottom of the hillock, he glimpsed a rotting hand protruding from the mud. He hardly even paused in his stride. He had seen much, much worse. However, near the decaying tree stump, he stopped. Something was wrong. He felt a sharp tingle down his spine. He was a killer by profession and a killer always knows when something is not right. After a few minutes the tingle went away and he resumed his march. He did not notice the glint of the silver blade as the knife sliced through the air towards him

"Midnight, and all's well!! Midnight, and all's well!!" bellowed the watchman.

And so it is. Thank you entrants for your most excellent submissions. The judging will be tough, I'm sure.

For now, this thread is closed, to prevent accidental late submissions.