Second Annual .Org Writing Contest

[Monk]

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!

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.




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.

[LeftEyeNine]

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..

[dessa14]

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

[Geoffrey S]

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.



==================================

[Ja'chyra]

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.

[Ianofsmeg16]

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

[Kagemusha]

I shall enter too.
____________________


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.

[edyzmedieval]

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.

[Big_John]

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


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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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[Alexander the Pretty Good]

Hehe. I liked that Big John!

Here's mine. Exactly 1000 words!

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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.”

[King of Atlantis]

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

[ichi]

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

[BobTheTerrible]

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…”