Second Annual .Org Writing Contest

[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.



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[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.