The Org's Writing Contest 2011 - submissions and poll

[Andres]

Submission 4

The samurai sat at the bank of the small stream, his legs wrapped beneath him, eyes closed in comfortable meditation. The sound of rushing water was soothing, immersive, and it helped him cleanse his mind of thoughts. His sword lay on the ground beside him; the engraved scabbard glistened ominously in the morning sun.
The sounds of forest merged with the sound of shallow, rushing water; the samurai himself was silent. His katana made no sound, either. It has spilled blood and took countless lives. There was no necessity for it to make sounds.

His clan came to an end; not even his skills that earned him the respect and made him feared by both friends and foes as kensai could prevent his daimyo and his fellow samurai from perishing. Too many enemies surrounded them, and not even his swift blade could be everywhere at the same time. He survived, but only to face a destiny of becoming a ronin. Service was once his whole life, but now his life extended beyond his purpose, rendering him obsolete, useless…dishonored.

He dwelled on the words of his sensei who, long time ago, taught him of true greatness a warrior could attain.

“First great achievement of a swordsman is the unity of hands and the sword; master that and no enemy will bring peril to you.”

“Second great achievement is the unity of heart and mind with the sword; even with empty hands, a samurai will destroy his adversaries with a blade of grass, or even a simple thought.”

“Third and greatest achievement is the absence of the sword from the hands, heart and mind. Then you will be able to serve higher purpose, and bring peace and harmony to the world.“

The samurai now contemplated the sun, the creek, the mild spring breeze strafing his face. What would they be without him? Would they even exist? What would he be without the sword? Could there be such a thing as a life without purpose? And how could he live in a world without the sword if he ever reached the third achievement; was there even a way of bringing peace without wielding a blade?

He sat meditating, his katana to his left side, a tanto to his right. If he failed, tanto might restore some of his honor; if he succeeded, he would leave them behind. Would these tools feel pain, he wondered? Would they feel discarded and useless, as I do? They say a samurai’s spirit is in his sword; could I betray myself, my spirit, my sword…by abandoning it?

He couldn’t tell if he was being simply foolish, or if he has struck a spiritual note of his own nature. Never having thoughts like these, the samurai found himself on unfamiliar ground. What would he be when he seized being what he is? Wasn’t that a sort of a death in and of itself? Yet again, the teaching of his sensei echoed in him, and suddenly he wondered if it isn’t fear that was holding him back in his ways… Could it be the fear that stopped him from making a final step into this unfamiliar, new world he felt himself driven to? His entire life was a fierce, successful struggle to conquest fear; no opponent, no duty or task made his hands shake. Could his fear now come to him, disguised as spirit of past glories and honors, stopping him from moving onward?

So he sat there, at the bank of the river, contemplating, meditating. He sat silently, making no sound. He spilled blood and slain enemies, but his greatest battle was still ahead of him. His katana lay next to him; if it had a spirit, it would be all sword and no heart, no mind. It would never doubt nor question its purpose.

[Andres]

Submission 5

Sakoku

The tight corridors of Nagasaki were clogged with thick smoke, as vendors dealt and threatened by each wooden house. Four heavily armoured men weaved their ways through the babbling crowds of the main street, gently pushing others away as they made for their destination. Each man had a hand loosely held on either rapier or pistol, the leading one looking forward anxiously, while his comrades each had a curious, threatening look to them. At the back of this small group was a young man who held a folder of worn papers, and himself seemingly a heavy footfall. As the busy street opened up into a packed market square, mainly occupied by large stalls and flanked by mysterious, wooden shops. The four men kept moving through the crowd, obviously moving to a specific place. The young man watched as they walked by a haggling group of English traders, who were attempting to fool a local merchant into buying their wool. The next shop had a single man who was talking privately with a rich local, both seeming to neither haggle with price nor talking trade. One of the older guards scoffed at a combined gaggle of Portuguese and Spanish sailors, at least twenty who were furiously arguing. One of the Spaniards was angrily pointing at a cart full of deep red spices, while his Portuguese friend threw a disdainful hand at him.
"Keep those Spanish pigs away from us." growled the man on the left, in a thick Amsterdam accent, sneering at the Iberians. The other Dutch guard rattled his rapier at a nearby Spaniard soldier, who himself spat at the group. The young man at the back averted eye contact, looking down as the two groups passed.
"Now, boys, we're here for the trading." reminded the older man at the front, glancing at what seemed to be the Spanish leader.
"Aye, Captain." murmured the man on the left, his angry sneer still present. He looked around at the young man.
"Remember, though, Pieter, those bastards will always be enemies."
"Lieutenant! If the locals hear your bloodlust they'll throw us all out!" snapped the Captain anxiously as they approached what seemed to be the end of this market square. Pieter at the back lowered his head cautiously as the tip of large cross appeared over the market stalls. A subdued atmosphere was suddenly rife as pools of blood spread out over the ground. A gruesome greeted the four Dutch traders as a row of crosses were arrayed in the final opening. Hanging at the head of each cross were naked men, each nailed as if Jesus himself. The blood slowly crawled down to the base of the cross as Japanese guards stood around, chatting cheerily. Each of the Dutchmen made the sign of the cross and muttered their prayers.
"What in God's name?" whispered the Lieutenant, eyes slowly cast upon each of the twenty six crucified, mouth open aghast.
"My point proven, Lieutenant. This is the result of...blood lusting." warned the Captain quietly, hands anxiously turning over a bag of gold. Pieter had stopped in his tracks, horrified by the pool of blood creeping towards him, some monster of sins beckoning. Each of this faithful men had looks of screaming pain etched to their dead faces.
"Pieter! We have little time to spare." beckoned the Captain, and the young man sprinted to catch up with the hurrying party, as they disappeared into the labyrinth of homes. Finally the Captain stopped at the wide entrance to a shop. Within sat a portly looking Japanese merchant, surrounding by parchment. He looked up as the shadow threw itself over his busy table.
"Ah! Captain Dirk... It is a true pleasure to... Make your acquaintance." greeted the merchant with a wide smile, standing to shake hands with the armoured Captain. He gruffly pushed forward a sweaty hand, gold jingling in other hand.
"Your Dutch is very good, sir." complimented the Captain, despite the merchant's halting attempts. They both retreated into a back room at the beckoning of the merchant. As the two discussed trade in the shadow of the back room, the three other turned into the shadowy alley to welcome another ten of the crew. Each crew member was armed to the teeth with arquebus, carbines and pistols. Others had thick helmets while some wore heavy, black armour.

Pieter withdrew to the back of the babbling group where he shuffled through sea-worn papers. After some minutes both the merchant and Captain emerged. The Captain wore a greedy grin.
"We'll be heading back to the ship where the good Lord will inspect the stores. Make ready, guard!" The Lieutenant yelled out the orders and the thirteen soldiers organized themselves into a makeshift column. At order they started a solemn march back into the bloody square. The merchant and Captain discussed the silver they were trading passionately as they turned past the twenty six crosses and further into town. As the Captain ignored his guard and the Lieutenant marched on, a soldier suddenly broke rank. Heavy armour jangling loudly he stabbed a finger at the watching crowd.
"The bastard!" he roared, as a disturbed sailor's head snapped up from his dealings, hand shifting to belt, "The damn fool is a traitor!" accused the soldier confidently. The stalls were dead silent, except for the dripping of blood from each cross. The lone sailor had been talking with a brown robed man, who Pieter recognised as a Jesuit missionary. He babbled some words in Spanish feebly at the same moment the Lieutenant drew a glinting rapier, aiming it at the traitor.
"You speak with the Spanish? You have betrayed the Republic, and speak with its enemies?" he asked as if Judge and Jury, face twisted into a picture of disgust. Rather then answer honestly the man hurriedly reached into his blue coat and drew forth a large, brown carbine, and fired at the column of Dutch soldiers. The bang issued smoke over the three stalls in between, and the hundreds of people scattered as if leaves to the wind. As the screams echoed high above the markets the bullet whistled into the Dutch soldiers, glancing and bouncing off heavy armour before whistling past Pieter's cheek and finally lodging itself firmly into the local merchant's forehead. He keeled over with a final gasp, blood pouring from bloody hole. The Captain looked down in shock and fury as the murderer grimaced and ducked. The Lieutenant had quickly pulled forth a small pistol himself a unloaded a shot at the traitor. As the twelve guards dispersed into cover the lone shot once again caused innocent harm, as it cut straight through the Jesuit's chest. As he clutched at a gaping chest, Hell itself seemed to burst from its dikes.

The rapid exchange of duelling fire had left a thick smog between the two groups. As blood crawled into the middle the now empty market centre was full of shouts as the other Dutch guards fired shots over the top of wooden stalls at the traitor.
"Pieter!" The Captain grabbed a loose bit of Pieter's shirt and pointed at the dead merchant, "We need to get him out of here!" he yelled over the roar of pistol fire and roaring shouts of the soldiers. Pieter and the Captain grabbed an arm each of the Japanese merchant and pulled him towards a nearby shop. as the blood trailed behind, the Captain kicked down the door to the shouts of protesting locals. He dropped the dead body and pointed a golden pistol at the old local yelling at him.
"Shut your damn mouth." The click of hammer convinced the man to quieten, but this left an empty silence hanging, from which the Captain ran to the door, swearing softly. He watched as his own men moved closer to their traitor, yelling insults at the man as he seemed to wait and pray. The Captain gasped as he heard yelling from the bayside. As he rushed into the battle, Pieter watched a huge group of Portuguese and Spanish sailors move in from the south, from the docks. They were a rabble, a disorganized group who had watched the local merchants rush by shouting out warning of barbarians fighting.

"Komo!" they had shouted, and now the Spaniards sprinted towards the roaring battle. The Captain raised a pistol and fired at shot, stopping a man dead with a shock as the others began to fire thick arquebus. The affair soon devolved into a heated engagement where the Dutch soldiers began to retreat towards the plaza, futilely firing at the thirty Spanish soldiers towards the south, who approached the opposing group with fierce, religious fervour. Pieter hid in the shadows of the door as his comrades were pushed back slowly. As he gripped the butt of a hidden pistol, he watched silently as Spanish sailors ducked past his cover. The bullets whistled past intensely, creating an orchestra of destruction as cloth and wood was ripped apart by stray bullets. Each man ducked and weaved through the rows of stalls, routinely appearing to fire a carbine at the enemy only to duck. Several appeared only to be thrown backwards with the intensity of the bullet's force. As the mob pushed past his position, Pieter emerged bravely from his cover. As he slid past the dead merchant, and slipped on the blood stained cobblestone, he turned behind. He spotted the Captain now duelling with a Spanish sailor, silver rapier against thick cutlass, and the looked to the south where the tips of swaying masts begged from the bay. Hopeless desperation swelling up within his heart, a nearly vomiting Pieter summoned his courage and sprinted desperately towards the bay. As fast as his twenty year old legs could take him, he sprinted past the battered remains of a thriving market as the locals peered from behind partly closed blinds, the thick smog of gunpowder hanging in his nose. As he threw away the image of a collapsing merchant, the loss and hopelessness of battle in his stomach, he never heard the stamping march of reinforcements before him. It was too late when the horde of Japanese reinforcements appeared around the corner, each with bowl hat, long pike and angry expression wielded. What chance did a twenty year old stand, born in the slums of Eindhoven, when a furious veteran of the Sengoku Jidai saw the very catalyst of his country's demise before him? The foreigner, the komo, offered himself like a sacrifice, like each saint crucified behind him. Neither had been shown no better - neither had been drawn from their sakoku.

The quick jab of spear to the stomach sliced open his stomach. The Japanese soldier quite simply judged by what he saw. Like so many foolish people before him, like the poor souls lying dead on the bloody grounds of Nagasaki, Pieter had been judged and tried in a single instance. He was dead by the second stab.

[Andres]

Submission 6

Kawanakajima Tessen




Dawn crept up at a small pace, the orange ball of the sun rising over the mountains with considerable shyness as if afraid to let the rays bless the fields beside Chikumagawa. The flatlands were eerily silent, a faint wind brushing over the rice paddies drenched in water in the valley nestled between the high peaks. By now it was the fourth battle and there was still no result. Shingen guessed that Kenshin was marching down on his own army from Echigo and hoped that it was the case. From his protected position at the fortress in Kaizu he could not see much because of the morning mist, but he guessed and hoped Kenshin would stick to his plans.

The tessen of the Tiger of Kai signalled the advance of the army.

Shingen mounted his horse, barking out orders and signalling the group of henchmen to follow him. The Takeda daimyo led his black steed down the gentle slope of the green hill and towards the bridge over the Chikuma where his army was already marching at a slow walk towards the Kawanakajima plains. By now it was full dawn. Shingen guessed it would be somewhat around the time of the Hare, so he still had considerable time left to position his troops in an orderly manner. The daimyo galloped his horse over the bridge and into the fog covered flatland that concealed both his own army and possibly Kenshin's.

He fretted nervously as he stopped for a moment and scanned the flatland. There were no sounds apart from the sandals and hooves of his own men, none from far away, not even horse's hooves. Shingen turned towards his henchmen, his own expression darker than the lacquer on his helmet.

“Yozo, send word to Kosaka and Yamamoto to commence the attack if they can. The rest, follow me to the camp.”

In the middle of the Kawanakjima plains the black banner inscribed with Sun Tzu's words was the gather point of the Takeda army under Shingen's command. Gradually, the ashigaru arrived at the outpost, followed by the samurai and the Takeda cavalry on the left flank led by Shingen's brother Nobushige. Shingen came out of his outpost and watched with satisfaction as the troops deployed themselves in a kakuyoku formation, with Yamamoto Kansuke on the far right more than eager to drop in on the unsuspecting Uesugi lines. But he still did not like it. Something was amiss.

To his dismay all he could do now was wait.

They say the eagle strikes when he is in the most opportune of situations. As the clock ticked by, Shingen could hear the seconds pass from the time of the Hare and drift in a slow advance to the time of the Dragon. Behind him the sun rose is earnest, faster and faster with each minute passing by. He inspected his troops once more, lined up in a perfect formation. And yet his gut feeling was not where he wanted it to be. Shingen opened the strap of the kabuto helmet, allowing the cool mountain air to seep inside.

Blown away, the mist lifted.

A sudden, powerful gust of wind swept through the whole Kawanakajima plain. In the distance, the black-on-white Uesugi flags rose majestically as they descended from the base of the hill right in the path of the Takeda army. Shingen's dark eyes widened in horror, his jaw flexing at the sudden disparaging sight. With only half of the army under Shingen's command, Kenshin would waste no time in attacking and the Takeda daimyo knew that too well.

A sudden flurry of arrows whooshed towards the Takeda lines, barely missing Shingen as he rushed back into the protected command outpost. Shingen sighed. He barked at his henchmen to order a stand to the Takeda commanders. As they left the commander alone in the command tent, he collapsed on a makeshift tatami and ate his rice in silence, as if anticipating the storm after the quiet moments of his meal. The rage of the battle echoed inside his mind.

Shingen stood up nervously and took the tessen, exiting the post to mount his horse and lead his army.

But it was too late. The Takeda daimyo watched in unconcealed horror as the Uesugi forces smashed through the left flank of the army and were about to break behind the Takeda lines. There was no doubt in Shingen's mind why the break occured. Nobushige was dead.

With his palms sweating and his hands shaking uncontrollably, Shingen turned towards his tent and was about to enter when a messenger stopped his charging horse only a couple of feet away from the Takeda daimyo, shouting and waving his hands in mid air.

“My lord, Kosaka is being held by the Uesugi, he cannot come to help us in due time.”

Shingen swallowed nervously. “Is Uesugi Kenshin himself in the rearguard?”

“No my lord.”

Shingen's face turned to a deathly pallor, unable to come to terms with the grave situation. Another arrow swooshed a second later over his head and struck the messenger right in the arm, the young aide collapsing on the muddy field in complete agony. Less than a moment later Shingen rushed back into the tent to get the indications for the generals. A feeling of dread rose up inside him as raging sounds outside the tent grew louder and louder until he realised the grim truth.

The Dragon of Echigo was in the Takeda camp.

Shingen rushed outside the tent when he saw the first group of defenders collapse under the blows of Uesugi Kenshin's own hatamoto guards. A second wave of defenders rushed to protect their commander but by now the flood of attackers was impossible to stave off.

“Shingen!”

The voice did not startle him the least. He knew the voice. Shingen only smiled as he watched Kenshin rush through the group of Takeda samurai defending their commander. For many precious seconds Kenshin was pinned down in the fighting and unable to advance but Shingen made no gesture of leaving, watching from the distance with some satisfaction that his toughest opponent was kept in check by his men.

And yet Shingen's smile suddenly evaporated and turned to fear as he realised he was unarmed. The dead samurai were too far away from him and no one could spare any arms. Not even a wakizashi hung from his belt.

He only had the tessen.

Kenshin screamed once more at him and then broke free through the Takeda defenders. With his blood rushing and his face redder with fury than the banners of his army, Shingen took up the tessen and swished it in the air, opening the fan completely. Kenshin's horse charged towards him, the Dragon slicing the air in half with his katana as he aimed for Shingen's head. With a quick parry, Shingen rebounded from the blow and took a defensive position, deflecting two more of Kenshin's blows. The Dragon of Echigo raged with every single strike of the katana but there was nothing he could do more as Shingen blocked every avenue of attack.

Shingen was more than a match for him, even with something as small as the iron signalling fan. Kenshin continued his relentless attack, striking left and right in order to deal the decisive blow to his opponent. But nothing seemed to come to fruition, even after five successive blows. Shingen used the iron guard to block another set of blows and even managed to counter attack, aiming with the sharp iron ribs towards Kenshin's legs.

As the commanders kept fighting, Kenshin's hatamoto finally broke the last wave of defenders.

But by now it was too late for them. A large group of Takeda samurai closed in and cut most of them off as they tried to regroup from the casualties with the Takeda guards. Cut off from the main group, they were killed fast, leaving Kenshin alone to deal with Shingen and the rest of the Takeda army. But Kenshin did not even flinch, he kept his attack on Shingen who continued to deflect the blows with his war fan. But Shingen saw what Kenshin did not.

“Hara!”

The commander of the samurai group watched in horror the deadly duel between the two daimyo. Desperate, Hara rushed for Shingen's spear propped idly against the tent and charged towards Kenshin. Much too absorbed in the fight, the Dragon did not notice Hara race towards him from behind and when he finally caught a glimpse of the red warrior, the horse rocked under his the reins, nearly throwing him off guard. Seeing his whole group of hatamoto running away, Kenshin aimed one last blow and galloped away from the Takeda camp, leaving Shingen behind.

Gasping for air, Hara approached Shingen who mounted his own horse.

“My lord, Kosaka has struck from behind, the Uesugi are retreating.”

Shingen did not even reply even if the news gladdened him. He galloped away from the headquarters and guided his horse close to the front lines, watching the sweet scene of the Uesugi retreat. Most of the white banners were not burning or taken by the Takeda forces, the light cavalry units giving pursuit to the nearest routers.

Shingen sighed in relief. And yet a weight hung from his neck.

The Takeda daimyo turned his horse and watched the whole bloodied battlefield in ominous contempt, red liquid flowing in rivers over the fields were rice used to grow. Shingen looked at his war fan. Kawanakajima was the result of the tessen, but the same tessen won the battle.