Space: Ocean of Awe

Can I defeat Makuta with you?=)

Been awake for some time now.The following poster is a cucumber=)

You get transformed into an earwig, and people are trying to crush you wherever you go.I wish I had all the materials I need to make whatever I want=)

Freakish yellow eyes...=)

Some pony, she is.=)

Good luck battling Makuta...=)

All of these were amazing. I chose one, but 4 or 5 would have been my next choice.=)

These are my Bionicle related entries for the Warm Up: Flash Fiction Marathon thingy. Quality depends on how last minute they were, etc. These are completely unchanged except for a few misspellings and such. Hope you enjoy, and C&C is always appreciated! Flash Fiction Marathon Bionicle CompilationMember name: Space: Ocean of Awe==========Theme: VisionsWord count: 599 wordsStory: Between worldsA Ta matoran enters a great chamber, at the vey end sits a Toa, adorned in furs and flowery wreaths, his golden throne tattooed with images of the Order of Power. Matoran are in their rightful place among the Rahi. "Your Greatness," the Matoran says, placing a small parcel at his master's feet. "Your Tribute."The Great Toa peers disdainfully at this small bundle. "Do you really believe that such a...thing, could even be fit for the Rahi? Remove this trash from my sight!" The Toa finishes, speaking to an Attendant. Turning to his Royal Guards, he continues, "remove this Matoran scum from my living space. Perhaps the dungeon will teach him a thing or two about respect to his Superiors."The Matoran's expression of shock turns to outrage. "Your time is limited, Toa! Soon, you and your Toa friends will be put in your rightful place. From the Darkness whence you came, you shall return, all hail the Otherworlders!" He allows himself to be dragged out of the throne room, and is thrown into a dungeon.---Misak's eyes shoot open. It is a bright day, and birds chirp in the distance. Worried Matoran faces swim at the edges of his vision. "Where am I?"Talek, a Toa of Fire, shoulders his way through the crowd. "Misak! What happened?" He extends his hand to the Matoran on the ground. "Thank Mata Nui you're alright..."Misak recoils at the Toa’s hand."What's the matter? I’m a Toa, I'm not going to hurt you." says the Toa of Fire, taken aback at the fury in the Matoran's eyes. "I'm your old friend, talk to me! Step back, Matoran - he needs space."Slowly, recognition dawns on the Matoran's face. "Talek. Where am I? You ordered me into-no, that wasn’t real, was it?”The bewildered Toa kneels beside the Matoran, his voice is full of worry. “What isn’t real, Misak? I never told you, let alone ordered you, to do anything! I ought to get you indoors...”“No, it’s okay. I feel fine now, it’s happened before...but I saw you, sitting on that golden throne-I mean, it looked like you but...you would never order me into the dungeons. Wait, I’ll explain from the beginning.” And so he does, ending with the threat of a revolution in this corrupt universe.After a few moments, the Toa speaks. “This is no dream...it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with our universe, could it? You must tell the Turaga. He will know.” He offers the Matoran his hand again, this time Misak takes it. Suddenly Talek stiffens, he feels as if he is being crushed from all sides...The Toa opens his eyes. All is dark but one lightstone embedded in the opposite wall, damp with mould. Beside him lies the Matoran. “This can’t be...Misak? Misak! Is this the place you spoke of, that you saw?”The Matoran sits up. “Yes...somebody is coming!”Three pares of feet echo through the dungeon. Voices can be heard. “Guards! Have all the gates been secured? All posts occupied? We must be ready for any threat.”Soon a body is seen to match the voice. The footsteps cease, and Toa looks upon Toa, not a difference between them to be seen. “You-you’re...we’re the same, but that’s not possible!”Talek stands inside the cell. Though just as confused as his doppelgänger, he doesn’t let on. “Fancy meeting you here, brother.” The Toa smiles, and steps toward his villainous counterpart. “I would never have recognized myself with such a black heart.”-----I wish I could have fleshed this one out a bit more, then again, perhaps it’s better this way: I have an excuse for a confusing plot ====================Theme: The Legends of LhiiWord count: 600Story: A Tale of Uncommon CourageMatoran await, anticipating, as the Turaga begins. "Today, I would like to share with you a side of Lhii you have never heard of. We all know about Lhii the brave, adventurous, skillful, and hardworking Matoran. Today I will tell you of Lhii, the kind and generous.""Of everything Lhii owned, of all his lava surfing trophies and medals, only one possession truly mattered to him: his first lava board, moulded from protosteel, hung on his wall for all to see, but for none to touch. Every month, he would retrieve that board from his wall, walk down to the lava flow, and ride. Matoran would put aside their duties to watch him ride, more graceful than a Rahi whale. I have stood, on occasion, at the banks of the lava flow to watch him, his perfect balance, precise body movements. After some time spent riding, he would return to his home and polish his board, gently caressing it with a soft cloth until it shone like a lightstone."One such day, while Lhii Was cleaning his lava board, a Matoran knocked at his door. He greeted a Ta-Matoran, formerly part of the Guard, Ferna was his name, who sustained an injured leg from a battle with an agitated Kikanalo. Lhii welcomed his friend into his house, and they walked past various trophies and prized lava boards, into his sitting space."Ferna wanted to take lava boarding lessons with him. Lhii was doubtful at first, "Your leg won't pain you?" But agreed to do his best to help an old friend. He soon found that this would be no easy task."He first thought to use a balance-board, designed for stability, however Ferna would have to lean most of his weight on his injured leg. The slalom board lacked stability, and no other boards were found to fit Ferna's leg. The disabled Matoran hid his disappointment as he returned home. He had hoped, with all his heart, that he could experience some freedom from his handicap through lava surfing."Lhii had fitted countless Matoran with the perfect lava boards such that he could find the perfect match for a Matoran within minutes. Although Ferna posed a challenge with his injury, Lhii knew there was a match for him. It wasn’t a matter of finding the match, it was a matter of finding the courage to suggest such a match. He sat down on a stool, and gazed at the opposite wall, where his lava board hung, like a painting, radiant as a lightstone. Flawlessly moulded, unrivaled balance, while maintaining a perfect speed. Adjustable foot grips made it fit for anyone to ride."It was the perfect match, and he knew it. Could he give it up, the board on which it all began, which he spent hours every day polishing, fine tuning. As he thought about his friend, limping toward his home, how he had valiantly stepped into the kikanalo’s path, saving his life, Lhii realized that he must do it; he would hate himself for all eternity if he didn’t."The next day, Lhii watched and instructed Ferna through the motions. “Lean to the side as if you intend to touch the lava...that’s it...now the other side...” Ta-Matoran stopped to watch this extraordinary sight, eyes darted from the legendary lava board that this disabled Ta-Matoran rode so gracefully, to the yellow Matoran observing from the bank. Lhii smiled and waved; never had he felt so satisfied.”Matoran smile as Vakama concludes his tale of uncommon courage and kindness.-----I wanted to write something that other people probably wouldn’t write about, and this seemed to be the only one that would work (I’ve forgotten the other ideas now).====================Theme: FlightWord count: 600Story: ReentryAn enormous aircraft rolls out onto the tarmac, a gigantic wing in appearance, a minuscule cockpit in the center between two rocket engines, two more engines at the wingtips. In the cockpit sits a Toa of Air, checking the controls, reading the dials; behind him sits a Glatorian, checking and re-checking calculations. Even the tiniest mistake will be devastating.“Artakha-1, come in.” The Toa responds via his Mask of Communication: “Artakha-1 reporting, all systems are ready-go.”Matoran and Agori watch from a safe distance as the wing takes its place on the runway. Toa use their powers to create holograms all over the planet: no inhabitant of the Spherus Magna would miss this historical event.“Ten.” The final countdown begins, a monotone voice echoing through the mountains.“Nine.” In a tall control tower, a Toa of Ice checks over the computing equipment.“Eight.” Matoran finish their inspection of the rocket engines just in time, scattering as the engines ignite.“Seven.” The pilot and navigator check and recheck equipment, seat belts, calculations.“Six.” The great wing starts down the runway, picking up speed.“Five.” The Toa pilot adjusts the flaps for optimum lift.“Four.” Great flames spring from the rocket engines as Artakha accelerates.“Three.” Excitement creeps into the announcer’s voice.“Two.” Engineers hold their breath.“One.” Matoran and Agori gasp as it lifts off, rocket engines angled downwards.“We have liftoff!” The excited voice sweeps around the planet. Matoran and Agori cheer, but this is only the beginning. Engineers in the Artakha-1 Exit and Entry Unit watch as the wing fades into the distance, their thoughts edged with doubt. Would Artakha-1 make it out of the atmosphere? More importantly, would it be able to reenter?-----“Artakha-1 reporting, an easy-smooth flight so far. Now entering Phase Two.” The wingtips begin to extend, widening, yielding more surface area and providing ample lift in the thin upper atmosphere. Plates slide into place, fitting seamlessly in the protosteel wing. Using his elemental powers, the Toa pressurizes the cabin. "Phase Two successful, over."Artakha-1 stays her course, wings expanding at crucial points, still generating lift. Matoran engineers grow tense, anticipating Phase Three: leaving the atmosphere behind and entering orbit. Will the Agori craftsmanship hold out?Now everything relies on the strength of the rocket engines, the precision of the pilot, and the accuracy of the navigator. The engines pivot ever so slightly, just the perfect angle, and the wing, now returning to it's original size, has left the atmosphere behind. The engines cut off, allowing Spherus Magna to pull Artakha-1 into orbit.Toa and Glatorian peer out of the shielded cabin windows at the magnificent, yet minuscule, planet below. Removing their harnesses, they float freely above their seats. "Artakha-1 reporting: we have arrived, and what a funny-strange sensation it is...over."Once again, the engineering team breathes. Exit Process all clear. But now they must prepare for the Reentry Process, the most dangerous part of the mission.The pilot and navigator check and recheck equipment. This is the most crucial moment, if Reentry fails, two lives, thousands of hours work, and countless resources are lost. The Toa adjusts the rockets, preparing for a gentle Reentry. Holding its course, Artakha-1 smoothly cuts into the atmosphere.-----"Come in, Artakha.""Artakha-1 reporting.""We have detected a system malfunction: break chute dispatcher reports a jam.""...Mata Nui help us..."-----The fireball is visible as an Agori hands a prewritten speech to the Turaga."Dear friends, we have suffered a great loss tonight..."-----I’m pretty satisfied with this one, and perhaps some day I’ll write an epic or something about the Bionicle Space Age or something, or maybe a false historical document...thingy.====================Theme: Alternate UniverseWord count: 600Story: TimeIt was the end of the Universe as they knew it. The very fabric of reality, the Space-Time continuum, had been torn apart, massive wormholes popped in and out of existence, and Time shifted, merciful as a Piraka.Amidst this mayhem a Toa of Ice sat with a Toa of Earth, sheltered within a machine of their own making. The Toa of Ice spoke: "there is no sense in returning to the past, trying to set this straight: our Universe will still exist in this state, our act will only create an alternate universe which, undoubtedly, would have been created otherwise. There is nothing we can do that has not already been done.""I have analyzed all available data, from that pivotal point in Time, there is nothing that could have saved our Universe from the Time Collapse. If we return to steal the Vahi, take it before it can be destroyed, we can create an alternate Universe. We can save Time.""We are needed here.""Inhabitants of this Universe are doomed. Should we deny these Matoran a better fate in an alternate universe?"-----The two Toa activated the Time Machine, checking and rechecking meters, dials, statistics. The slightest error, and they could materialize inside a mountain, instantly killing themselves, removing all hope of an ordered Universe. The machine began to vibrate as it drew power from energized protodermis, and it slipped through a gaping hole in the Fabric of Reality, taking a shortcut into the past, to that fateful point in Time...-----A Toa of Ice stood outside a large structure, waiting to be relieved of guard duties. He didn’t wait long, for soon, a Toa of Earth approached him, took his place.Behind a gate, an identical Toa of Ice stepped out of a great Machine, moving aside for an identical Toa of Earth to emerge.“We mustn’t be seen...especially not by ourselves. A paradox is the last thing we need.”The Toa climbed over the gate, darting behind obstacles as they made their way toward the great structure. They gave themselves a wide berth as they made their way around the building, climbing the walls, through an open window.There was no Time to lose. Rushing silently through corridors, hardly daring to breathe, they found themselves in front of the door. The door behind which the Mask of Time rested; innocent, yet guilty, of the end of Time as we know it.The Toa of Earth heard his past self outside of the building, yelling, he remembered doing the exact thing. Soon, the malicious individual would arrive. They grabbed the Vahi, dashing out the door. The Toa of Stone heard himself rushing up the stairs, remembered chasing a thief, just before Time was torn apart.The Toa launched themselves out of the window, sprinting madly toward the Time Machine. The Toa of Earth stumbled, fell to the ground, the Vahi cracked beneath him. Then the realization struck him: he was the thief, it was he who had caused the end of Time. Could he undo his actions, save Reality?Nearby plants started to wilt as Time took a blow; the Toa gathered up the fragments the Vahi, sprinting the last few meters to the Time Machine, locking themselves inside, powering on, isolating themselves from Reality, and not a moment too soon. The Vahi let out a blast of energy, strong enough to cripple Reality, yet affecting no more than two brave Toa and a Time Machine, cut off from the Universe, from Reality. Time, the brutal dictator, would live to govern another day.-----I just had to do time travel, I couldn’t resist it; the topic just screamed it at me! Then again, almost everything screams time travel at me. I also used the Toas of Ice and Earth because one is generally obsessed with he future, and the other the past.====================Theme: The LegacyWord count: 437Story: Tahu“...To Leah Fern, I leave my antique furniture collection, preserved perfectly from the day it was made, to do whatever she wishes with it...to Jason Fern I leave my estate, and every unclaimed item that lies within it...for Alexandre Fern I leave...Tahu...” The attorney continues, but my mind lingers on that two syllable name.Tahu...“Kids, we’re visiting Grandma today, make sure you’re ready!” My mom would tell us.“Yeah.” My brother would reply, preoccupied with his games.“I’m ready whenever,” my sister would say, reading one of her old books.“I get to see Tahu again!” I would exclaim, rushing to get ready, putting my shoes on the wrong feet in my hurry. On the long drive down, I always had trouble sitting still. Sometimes I would try to imagine which amazing story Grandma would tell me that day as I sat at her feet, playing with the red Toa.I would always be the first to the door, ringing the bell incessantly, peeking through the window as she opened the door. I would always head straight to the family room, where he stood alone above the fireplace, his exuberant colour scheme setting the mantle aflame.Tahu...I would turn the gears on his back, making him attack imaginary villains, parry invisible blows, as she would begin another story about how Tahu and his team of Toa saved the day. Sometimes I would retrieve other Bionicle figures from the drawer, making them act out Grandma’s story; sometimes I would take them apart, using the pieces to create new characters for Grandma’s stories, using Gali’s mask for an astronaut, fashioning cookie minions out of the Pahrak torso, salvaging parts from Jaller, Axonn, Matoro, but never the radiant Toa of Fire.Tahu...His Kanohi Hau shielded me from horrors of the world, from the sadness of losing my father. His fire warmed my heart. He was the symbol of my childhood, of who I am. As he grew in character, so did I. I learned of honor, courage, trust, and loyalty through the adventures of Tahu. I learned of the danger of rash decisions, to always keep my cool, to think before I act, something the Toa could never quite accomplish.Tahu...It makes perfect sense for me to have the Toa of Fire; he was and forevermore is a symbol of my grandmother’s love. Though she is gone, her legacy lives within this Toa, just as mine will, years from now. My brother may have gotten a house, my sister may have gotten furniture worth thousands of dollars, but she gave me him.Tahu.-----I’m pretty satisfied with the way this turned out, and if you check out the word count, I aimed for 437 words for three reasons: I like a umber to end in 7 (if possible), 4 +3 = 7, and 37 is cool (call me crazy, maybe I am ).====================Theme: MusicWord count: 597Story: The MusicianThe chronicler spoke to the Turaga, of the strange, yet utterly beautiful, event he had witnessed all those years ago. He had failed to mention the mysterious songs in those long texts and records he had written, for he was never quite certain if what he had experienced was real, or if it was some apparition created by his mind as he lay, helpless and lost, in the vast, unconquered realm of nature.Now he knew that what he heard was true, for he had met the Musician once again, her notes still as beautiful, perfect, as they were before, her voice as strong as the wind, yet gentle like the stream that ran yonder, a sad cry of a wolf, yet more energetic than a meadow decorated with the boldest of flowers; and she still played the instrument, what a beautiful thing! As she puffed into the flute of branches and grass and plucked the strings of nature, an otherworldly sound resonated in the hearts of the listeners, and when that instrument was combined with her euphonious tones and astonishing vocals, it transcended the very nature of music.Afraid, despite his acquired descriptive skills, that he would be unable to portray the preternatural qualities of the Musician, the chronicler began his account of the night, thousands of years past, that he met the Musician."I lay between two rocks, cowering from the unseen, from the darkness that surrounded me; the stars shone, the brightest I had ever seen them, for there were no lightstones for Kio around. I heard the sound of Rahi deep within the shadowed forest, imagining the most foul monsters. This unknown, uncharted territory had me quivering, the very prospect of spending the night without a roof, above my head, without a foundation beneath my feet, terrified me beyond reason; there was nothing, or so I thought, that could alleviate the horrors of this situation."Curling up between the two rocks, I resigned myself to the night, hoping for no more than a few winks of sleep. Then I heard something, it sounded as if it came from the far off mountains; my first though was that it was a Rahi wolf, howling to it's pack about the vulnerable prey that I was; but it changed, the voice grew, echoing through the mountains, rustling the leaves: it was the wind whistling through the branches, between blades of grass - no, now it was the stream that gurgled over the smoothed pebbles, then it was a bird, singing the last notes before it slept, soon replaced by the hoots of an owl. Then it began to fade away, until all I heard were it's echoes, until all I felt was an inner calm that I had never felt before."Upon awakening the next morning, I could hear that supernatural voice once again, could feel the Musician's breath against my cheek as she whispered in my ear, feel the strings of her instrument beneath my feet: the blades of grass that swayed so gently in the wind. The bubbly song of the stream was intoxicating, the choir birds sang, whistled, tweeted their joyful songs, and at last I met the Musician in person, or rather in all her forms: for she was Nature herself, the lucent stream that flowed over the pebbles, the cool breeze that swayed the trees."Today I met her again, the Musician, as I walked the forest path over yonder; heard her play once again, her voice sweet as ever, and I hope that someday you will attend the Musician's concert too."-----This one was extremely last minute, and I couldn’t think of any good plots, so I decided to try my hand at descriptive writing and punctuation, sort of like an exercise.====================Once again, hope you enjoyed!=)

These are my COT entries to the Warm Up: Flash Fiction Marathon contest/warmup to the olympic thing (the worst being the ones written on my iPod under my sheets ). Notice how the varies based on how last minute the story was. Anyways, C&C always appreciated .Also, you can read/review only a few if you like.Flash Fiction Marathon COT CompilationMember name: Space: Ocean of Awe==========Theme: TreasureWord count: 600Story: Old ParchmentIt used to be that whenever somebody mentioned treasure, I would think of old chests filled with golden coins, buried beneath a temple overseas. Something that existed only in fiction, surely something that I, of all people, would never possess. I never thought, for a moment, that a treasure varies from person to person, that my greatest treasures, sitting in the basement, could be old parchment to someone else.-----I first questioned my views on this issue when I met a cashier by the name of Gray Allen. He worked at the used bookshop down on Wilhelm Street, striking up the most absurd conversations with anyone who would listen. I came by to browse and ended up buying three issues of Treasure Hunting magazine, which I used to collect when I was young.Apparently he collected them too, and was quite eager to point out that this magazine focussed on physical treasures such as jewels or collector's items, which plants the wrong ideas in young minds. As he put it, "I will never forget my eleventh birthday party, when I looked a my stack of presents and realized that nothing I had ever gotten truly mattered to me." I can't help but agree.-----That evening, after reading my magazines, I found no joy in flipping channels, no satisfaction in surfing the web. My friends offered to take me to the mall, but I had no passion for shopping. I picked up a Treasure magazine again, having no other ideas of what to do, and found a page heralding entries for a writing contest. I remembered entering a piece, I even won a free, two year subscription to the magazine. I had Long since given up writing, growing too busy with school, then my job. When I tried to start writing again I had profound trouble keeping my stories flowing, and my plots seemed too cliche.Perhaps this time, I thought, it would be different, maybe all I needed was some time. There’s no harm in trying again, so I did just that. I couldn’t use a computer, I just knew that I would get distracted. Writing by hand was far too slow, and I hadn’t seen any pencils in my house for months. In a bout of what just may be insanity, I concluded that the only medium with which I would follow through was my old typewriter, perfectly preserved from my younger days. It rested in a box, along with all my old stories.I brought the entire box and its contents to my bedroom, where I now sit, reading through my old stories. I remember writing DimentioPen as if it was yesterday, describing in detail how Greg, the protagonist, drew a door in the wall, opened it, and stepped into another country. In Over the Ocean I can almost feel the rocking of the ship, complimented by a terrible case of sea sickness, as the crew rush about trying to stay afloat in this storm.I get ready to start typing, thinking of what Grey, the Cashier, had to say. I would not give up my old stories, nor any stories-to-be, for a room full of diamonds. These words, typed so meticulously on this fading paper, are to me my greatest treasure, Grey Allen, the cashier, was simply the map that led me to it. Just two days ago, I would never believe that treasure lay in a small cardboard box in my basement, hiding beneath the trapdoor of boredom. Now? I find it hard to believe that I haven't opened this box before now.-----I didn’t want to write any old adventure story, and I couldn’t think of any plots involving stuff like “the treasure of life” and whatnot, fortunately I got this idea, and I’m relatively satisfied with the outcome.====================Theme: The GameWord count: 598Story: You'll never get away...“You’ll never get away, you’ll never get away, you’ll never get away, you’ll never get away...” the verses repeat over and over in my head. I can’t stop, I can’t get enough. I open my eyes; darkness. What day is it? Which month? I have to stop, this can’t go on. “You’ll never get away, you’ll never get away...” Will I ever get away?I sit up, pulling off my headset and eyepiece. “You’re wrong, I will get away.” The words just slip out. Of course I’ll get away. I am blinded by the sunlight filtering in through the blinds. My eyes slowly adjust as I turn on my computer. June eighth, 4:37 PM: twenty seven hours since I started the Game, of those, at least three hours spent completely unconscious.Shaky with hunger, stiff from lack of movement, I make my way toward the kitchen. Fumbling with a box of cereal, almost spilling the milk, I am barely able to keep my first bite down. I must stop, it's killing me. I can't keep my mind focussed; it keeps wandering off, obsessing over little things. I can’t eat, the sound of the spoon hitting the bowl drives me crazy. My mind prances off in another direction...is this what it feels like to be insane?The day I first played the Game, I had stood in line for five straight hours and oh, how rewarding to put on that headset for the first time, to feel myself drifting off, and to suddenly open my eyes in another universe, filled with adventure. I could control myself then, I had no trouble removing my headset after an hour to care for my worldly needs: to work, sleep, and eat.I started playing in my free hours, skipping meals, eventually losing my job. Then I heard the news. The government had outlawed the Game, and were searching houses for the console, giving a full refund in exchange for the Game. Anyone who refused was sent to rehab. I couldn’t give mine away, it had become part of my life. It had become my life. When the man arrived at my door, I was ready. I lied through my teeth, said that I threw it away the moment I heard; when he asked to come in, the Game wasn't there. The moment he left, I removed it from the oven and slipped my headset on.My mental and physical state has degenerated. I cannot go a single moment without obsessing over the Game, I haven’t seen daylight for weeks, except through the closed blinds in my bedroom. Can I turn my life around? “You’ll never get away, you’ll never get away...” the song pushes its way into my head.I step outside onto the balcony. Cool air caresses my cheeks, the sun is shining; I haven’t felt this good since I was young, when I had real friends, when I walked in the real world. I peer down from my ninth story apartment, watching people go about their daily lives, oblivious to my dilemma. It almost makes me resent them. I could jump, end it all, never again have to wear that headset. No.I go to my room, picking up the headset, returning to the balcony. The padding on the earphones has almost worn out, and I have developed rashes around my eyes from constant contact with the eyepiece. I will get away. I force my arm over the railing. Before I can change my mind, I drop it, watch it shatter on the ground. I have gotten away.-----A little dark, I suppose, but that’s what I was aiming for. Addiction (unless it’s a mild chocolate addiction) is not generally a light topic. I had many different ideas for this theme, but they didn’t quite fit, and I would have needed a lot more than 600 words. I’ve forgotten them now.====================Theme: Amor omnia vincitWord count: 600Story: The conquest of loveThe politicians faced each other, their loathing could be felt kilometers away, but each wore a false smile for the cameras. They grip each other’s hands in a handshake, the deal was official, all paperwork signed. As they turned away from each other, each was swarmed by cameras, reporters. Each refused to answer any questions.There would be temporary peace between the nations, trading would begin once again, but the enmity could not be more plain, the hate clear as day, black as night. Peace treaties had been made in the past, but never lasted; everybody knew that this would go the same way as all other attempts at peace, torn down as the age old dispute arose. Once again, they were proved right.Protests were blocked at every turn in both nations, the people silenced. These important issues had to be dealt with by the men with experience and power, who 'knew what they were doing'. The war must go on until here was a definite winner. But the people still tried to shout out to the government; peaceful protests had turned to riots as the military interfered, peaceful newspaper articles, columns, and editorials popped up before the authors started going missing.Who started the war, nobody knew. It was said that each side invaded the other on the same day, at the same time. each accused the other, and would not admit to their own treachery. Many believed that the war was a joint plan formed by both nation's leaders.On the day that the war was re-declared for the fifth time, civilians took to the streets en masse, devoid of banners or slogans, no chants or roars, no demands. Just people, millions of them, out on the street as if it was a normal day. No prior organization, each man, woman, and child knew what to do. they marched, together, to the nearest government post.Some walked right into the army base, greeting the soldiers and shaking hands with the generals, thanking them for protecting the country, showing their appreciation at each man's hard work.Others, in the Capitols, walked right into the government buildings, sincerely congratulating their leaders on their performance, thanking them for the service that had been done for the citizens. Informing the politicians that they were no longer needed, that a new senate would replace the old.The largest masses travelled to the border, shaking hands with 'enemy' citizens, showing their love and appreciation of each other, sharing their experiences. Each found that their frustrations were shared, every person felt the same about the war, the government, the politicians.Then, among the crowd, one voice was raised. "Paper, paper-now a pen!" People rushed about, searching for a shred of paper and a pen. A man rose from the crowd, climbing atop a vehicle, to this man belonged that voice. He called for a man or woman from the Other Side to come join him, and when he had company, he spoke once again. "I have with me a pen, a paper, and fellow citizen of the world, and with this I will make peace as no politician can. It is a pen, and not a pencil, so that these words will never be erased." He wrote upon the paper: 'love conquers all, so let it be that love conquers our land.' He then signed his name, and handed the paper to his companion, who signed on behalf of the Other Side.Although the government never admitted an end to the war, the people lived in peace ever after, united under the conquest of love.-----This was terribly last minute, and as a result, the story kind of sucks. I literally wrote this in less than an hour, submitted it, and the next day realized that I still had a whole day to write it XD. If I had known, I would have done my original idea, which goes something along the lines of “love means nothing to a tennis player”.====================Theme: UltimatumWord count: 599 wordsStory: Catch 22I can’t do this. This time, it truly seems that there is no alternative. Countless times, I had escaped tight situations, always choosing the third option when provided two choices. Now, I have no hidden alternatives, no escape from certain doom.Today is the last day to dawn on one Earth colony. It’s up to me to decide which. If I press the button, a planet, ridden with countless terrestrial immigrants, will be destroyed. If I refuse, my own colony will meet the same fate. If I tell anyone about this, we are all doomed.I received the the transmission from Earth via Quantum Communication at 1713 hours. The New Terrestrial Government, founded by the three Corporations, needed their people to remain on Earth, they couldn’t lose them to the colonies. I was assured that everybody would believe it to be an accident, an impact from an enormous asteroid, that brought about such a catastrophe.Why somebody would do this, how somebody could be given so much power, is beyond me. Is the economy more important than the people? Is that really their reason, their justification, for destroying an entire planet?Find the third option. There is almost always a third option. Almost always. I look around the small room they had put me in; there, surrounded by buttons and switches, is the Button. They had offered me a generous share in the Market if I pushed the button, I would be one of the richest people in the Galaxy; I know some people who would take that opportunity, no matter the consequences. I’m not one of them, and I can’t decide whether that’s good or bad. It would certainly spare me this dilemma, but I don’t want to imagine myself with so much power, so many riches, at the expense of billions of lives.Other than the small panel of buttons, a telephone, and a door, the room is bare. I can’t escape: that would mean the destruction of my home world. I can’t press the button: that would be the end of so many lives. I wasn’t told what the other buttons do, but I can’t risk pressing them. There is too much at stake.“Why can’t you do this yourselves?” I don't expect an answer. Then the telephone rings. I have never used a telephone. It rings again, I don’t know how to. I pick it up on the third ring, putting the curved part to my ear, as I have seen people do in 2D photographs. I hear a voice, edged with the slight inconsistency of an artificial tone, on the other end. “We cannot be held responsible, should anybody realize the truth.” I hang up the phone.Why would it be an artificial tone? There must be something that I’m missing, some little bit of information, that would make this all make sense. I think of all those countless conspiracies that I had seen on the Entanglement before it was was censored; perhaps they were not so far off after all. I remember one, which claimed that the Government designed an Artificial Intelligence to manage the economy, but had lost control over the AI, which gained control over the military, among other sectors. Of course. Perhaps there is a third option after all...I pick up the phone and press numbers at random. To my astonishment, the call connects. I speak. “Would you mind asking the Government what their military has been up to?” I walk out of the room. There is nothing more to do. If this fails, we were all doomed anyways.-----I’m hoping to expand on this sometime, it might make an interesting political sci fi story. I was originally going to do something about how this theme was like an ultimatum (because I was having a lot of trouble thinking of an idea), but the way I wrote it was terrible.====================Theme: Character storyWord count: 484Story: The camp doctorSitting at night at the foot of his bed, sometimes staring glassily at the tattoo of the crowned wolf, other times gazing blankly at his hats, which rarely left the small trunk filled with his belongings. Each day was a struggle: awakening to dawn's persistent rays, he would coax himself out of bed, force himself to meet the hopeful expressions of his patients, cower at the sad faces of their families.He would drag himself into that tent, feel the odor of death, pain, and misery wash over him as he took that single step from freedom into a living grave, awful beyond words, something no one should ever experience; a very crime unto humanity. This was the hospital of the refugee camp at which he worked, served, as a doctor. The people being treated had fled from someplace, escaping terror and exploitation, hoping for something better; if only they had known what awaited in these camps.It was his job to keep these people alive; nothing more, nothing less, but despite his desperation to escape from this awful reality, to hide away in his room until the sun rose mercilessly the next morning, he would sit at the children's beds, keeping them company when they had no one. Pulling up his sleeve, he would tell stories about the wolf with a crown, on occasion he would even put on a show of hats for his younger patients.Every night he would pray that the injection would cure, that the surgery would not fail. Every day he would watch patients grow thinner, see those once hopeful eyes full of despair, confront the concerned families, laden with bad news.Within three of his thirty nine years on this planet, he had seen, heard, and smelled more than any man should in three lifetimes. If not a man, woman, or child died in a week, it was extraordinary. If a month went by without a death, it was a miracle. With every child who died he felt a stab of pain, yet he had developed a strange apathy toward the family as they cried over their lost kin. How would they feel in his shoes, where his very life was death? If he cried over every child lost, as he did in the beginning, there would be nobody to care for the survivors. They thought that they had lost all hope? Try facing a child's mother, father, brother, after a failed surgery. Try confronting the hopeful families of hopeless cases, day after day, week after week, month after month.Despite the everyday horrors of his occupation, the relief felt after a successful surgery, the elation of bringing good news to a recovering refugee's family, and the hope that one day, these people would escape the bindings of this cruel reality, pushed him through each day, week, month, of the selfless existence of a refugee camp doctor.-----A last minute entry, not entirely satisfied, but I don’t think it was too bad, though perhaps a little depressing. I was going to do something concerning the Doctor (like Doctor Who), but the age would have been just a little off...====================Theme: PreparationWord count: 555Story: Home“Prepare for the storm of the eon - when mountains will be moved by great continents of ice, when the howl of a hurricane is no more than breeze, when baseball sized hale is considered microscopic - trust not your belongings to the cellar, for their very foundations will be ripped from the ground; trust not your money to the safest bank vaults, for every last credit will be scattered like leaves in an autumn wind. When the time comes, be prepared to escape from this turbulent world - prepare yourselves for the journey, homeward bound, that we have planned for centuries - to reunite with our fathers, to touch the soil where it all began: Earthward bound!”I switched off the newsfeed. Of all the ridiculous things these people advertise - the destruction of a colony? Though I suppose this isn’t exactly your average colony composed of either deported criminals, scientists, or voluntary citizens - this was rather accidental.Long before I was born, a starship full of scientists, astrophysicists, and miners travelled to a distant star to mine a planet composed entirely of precious stones and invaluable metals. The scientists came because the planet was located just within the goldilocks zone, and their fancy observational equipment hinted toward the possibility of sustaining terrestrial life. They were quite correct: 90% of the surface was covered with water, a perfect atmosphere...and a massive planet just next door.Once dispatching a landing pod to explore our planet, the scientists were unable to return to the mothership due to the terrible tides and extreme storms. Rescue missions were unsuccessful, and half the crew of 1713 was marooned on this planet, an involuntary colony. Generations later, we are preparing to say goodbye to this paradise we have created.-----Crowds walked into the grand airships, which would soon transport the involuntary colony out of the atmosphere, fueled by the storm. I can’t help overhearing one young boy badgered his grandfather with questions: “granddaddy, what will Earth be like?”The man, much aged since the spice stores were depleted, replied to his grandson. “Absolutely gorgeous. The cities were incredible, buildings as tall as the waves, but they would yield to the endless, untamed wilderness. I never ventured outside the city gates, but the holograms were just incredible. You will love it, I’m sure.”I still can’t believe that after all this time, we are just leaving; I can only hope that we return within my lifetime.-----Every airship prepared for liftoff, every seed discovered on the planet stored away, every passenger in their seats; we are ready to leave. The atmosphere left behind, these airships would provide a constant propulsion toward Earth. Though the journey would take thousands years traveling just below the speed of light, we will be asleep until our arrival.The storm is at its peak: though we can’t feel it, we can see and hear it on our screens, our cities being plucked from the ground, which is swallowed up in tsunami kilometers high. The cameras switch off. Nothing left of our brief, yet well established civilization. Everything we worked for, gone.-----We all crowd to the viewports, trying to catch a glimpse of our new home. Where are those cities that covered the continents? Where are those great forests, the oceans?Where is planet Earth? Gone.Time to return home.-----This was ridiculously last minute. I had to think of an ending in two minutes, so it’s a little scarce, however I may elaborate on this idea.====================Hope you enjoyed them. Nothing has been changed apart from a few misspellings/typos (that were pointed out by the built-in proofreader).=)

At which point did you start seeing the Toa as weaklings?=)

2/5 I've seen you around.=)

Not at all.The following poster will search for hidden text in my sig.=)

I chose 4, but 5 was my next choice.=)

A tough choice between 3 and 5. I went with 5 in the end.=)

Can't believe that this is over! This was an awesome contest, now I have so many ideas to expand upon! Thanks Fives and Velox for hosting this.And oh my, talk about last minute XDMember name: Space: Ocean of AweTheme: PreparationMord count: 555Story: Home“Prepare for the storm of the eon - when mountains will be moved by great continents of ice, when the howl of a hurricane is no more than breeze, when baseball sized hale is considered microscopic - trust not your belongings to the cellar, for their very foundations will be ripped from the ground; trust not your money to the safest bank vaults, for every last credit will be scattered like leaves in an autumn wind. When the time comes, be prepared to escape from this turbulent world - prepare yourselves for the journey, homeward bound, that we have planned for centuries - to reunite with our fathers, to touch the soil where it all began: Earthward bound!”I switched off the newsfeed. Of all the ridiculous things these people advertise - the destruction of a colony? Though I suppose this isn’t exactly your average colony composed of either deported criminals, scientists, or voluntary citizens - this was rather accidental.Long before I was born, a starship full of scientists, astrophysicists, and miners travelled to a distant star to mine a planet composed entirely of precious stones and invaluable metals. The scientists came because the planet was located just within the goldilocks zone, and their fancy observational equipment hinted toward the possibility of sustaining terrestrial life. They were quite correct: 90% of the surface was covered with water, a perfect atmosphere...and a massive planet just next door.Once dispatching a landing pod to explore our planet, the scientists were unable to return to the mothership due to the terrible tides and extreme storms. Rescue missions were unsuccessful, and half the crew of 1713 was marooned on this planet, an involuntary colony. Generations later, we are preparing to say goodbye to this paradise we have created.-----Crowds walked into the grand airships, which would soon transport the involuntary colony out of the atmosphere, fueled by the storm. I can’t help overhearing one young boy badgered his grandfather with questions: “granddaddy, what will Earth be like?”The man, much aged since the spice stores were depleted, replied to his grandson. “Absolutely gorgeous. The cities were incredible, buildings as tall as the waves, but they would yield to the endless, untamed wilderness. I never ventured outside the city gates, but the holograms were just incredible. You will love it, I’m sure.”I still can’t believe that after all this time, we are just leaving; I can only hope that we return within my lifetime.-----Every airship prepared for liftoff, every seed discovered on the planet stored away, every passenger in their seats; we are ready to leave. The atmosphere left behind, these airships would provide a constant propulsion toward Earth. Though the journey would take thousands years traveling just below the speed of light, we will be asleep until our arrival.The storm is at its peak: though we can’t feel it, we can see and hear it on our screens, our cities being plucked from the ground, which is swallowed up in tsunami kilometers high. The cameras switch off. Nothing left of our brief, yet well established civilization. Everything we worked for, gone.-----We all crowd to the viewports, trying to catch a glimpse of our new home. Where are those cities that covered the continents? Where are those great forests, the oceans?Where is planet Earth? Gone.Time to return home.

I suppose I do.The following person to post in this topic will be ninja'd (or should I say the person after the following poster?)=)

Sometimes.The human who so graciously posts below me is indifferent.=)

It so happens that everybody else hates your music, and gather at your front for with pitchforks, torches, and baseball bats to put an end to your music.I wish I had the TARDIS=)

You walking around the city late at night arouses the suspicion of the police...I wish my iPod got left at my friend's house.=)

Member name: Space: Ocean of AweTheme: MusicWord count: 597Story: The MusicianThe chronicler spoke to the Turaga, of the strange, yet utterly beautiful, event he had witnessed all those years ago. He had failed to mention the mysterious songs in those long texts and records he had written, for he was never quite certain if what he had experienced was real, or if it was some apparition created by his mind as he lay, helpless and lost, in the vast, unconquered realm of nature.Now he knew that what he heard was true, for he had met the Musician once again, her notes still as beautiful, perfect, as they were before, her voice as strong as the wind, yet gentle like the stream that ran yonder, a sad cry of a wolf, yet more energetic than a meadow decorated with the boldest of flowers; and she still played the instrument, what a beautiful thing! As she puffed into the flute of branches and grass and plucked the strings of nature, an otherworldly sound resonated in the hearts of the listeners, and when that instrument was combined with her euphonious tones and astonishing vocals, it transcended the very nature of music.Afraid, despite his acquired descriptive skills, that he would be unable to portray the preternatural qualities of the Musician, the chronicler began his account of the night, thousands of years past, that he met the Musician."I lay between two rocks, cowering from the unseen, from the darkness that surrounded me; the stars shone, the brightest I had ever seen them, for there were no lightstones for Kio around. I heard the sound of Rahi deep within the shadowed forest, imagining the most foul monsters. This unknown, uncharted territory had me quivering, the very prospect of spending the night without a roof, above my head, without a foundation beneath my feet, terrified me beyond reason; there was nothing, or so I thought, that could alleviate the horrors of this situation."Curling up between the two rocks, I resigned myself to the night, hoping for no more than a few winks of sleep. Then I heard something, it sounded as if it came from the far off mountains; my first though was that it was a Rahi wolf, howling to it's pack about the vulnerable prey that I was; but it changed, the voice grew, echoing through the mountains, rustling the leaves: it was the wind whistling through the branches, between blades of grass - no, now it was the stream that gurgled over the smoothed pebbles, then it was a bird, singing the last notes before it slept, soon replaced by the hoots of an owl. Then it began to fade away, until all I heard were it's echoes, until all I felt was an inner calm that I had never felt before."Upon awakening the next morning, I could hear that supernatural voice once again, could feel the Musician's breath against my cheek as she whispered in my ear, feel the strings of her instrument beneath my feet: the blades of grass that swayed so gently in the wind. The bubbly song of the stream was intoxicating, the choir birds sang, whistled, tweeted their joyful songs, and at last I met the Musician in person, or rather in all her forms: for she was Nature herself, the lucent stream that flowed over the pebbles, the cool breeze that swayed the trees."Today I met her again, the Musician, as I walked the forest path over yonder; heard her play once again, her voice sweet as ever, and I hope that someday you will attend the Musician's concert too."

It is brought back, but on a channel that you don't get.I wish I was the Doctor=)

Of eating cakes? Nah.The heck is with these ninjas?Can't say that I have.The following human being to post in this topic likes storms=)

Absolutely.The following poster has broken an ipod/mp3 device at some point in their life=)

Yet another story that isn't clipping the word limit, this must be some sort of record.Member name: Space: Ocean of AweTheme: Character storyWord count: 484Story: The camp doctorSitting at night at the foot of his bed, sometimes staring glassily at the tattoo of the crowned wolf, other times gazing blankly at his hats, which rarely left the small trunk filled with his belongings. Each day was a struggle: awakening to dawn's persistent rays, he would coax himself out of bed, force himself to meet the hopeful expressions of his patients, cower at the sad faces of their families.He would drag himself into that tent, feel the odor of death, pain, and misery wash over him as he took that single step from freedom into a living grave, awful beyond words, something no one should ever experience; a very crime unto humanity. This was the hospital of the refugee camp at which he worked, served, as a doctor. The people being treated had fled from someplace, escaping terror and exploitation, hoping for something better; if only they had known what awaited in these camps.It was his job to keep these people alive; nothing more, nothing less, but despite his desperation to escape from this awful reality, to hide away in his room until the sun rose mercilessly the next morning, he would sit at the children's beds, keeping them company when they had no one. Pulling up his sleeve, he would tell stories about the wolf with a crown, on occasion he would even put on a show of hats for his younger patients.Every night he would pray that the injection would cure, that the surgery would not fail. Every day he would watch patients grow thinner, see those once hopeful eyes full of despair, confront the concerned families, laden with bad news.Within three of his thirty nine years on this planet, he had seen, heard, and smelled more than any man should in three lifetimes. If not a man, woman, or child died in a week, it was extraordinary. If a month went by without a death, it was a miracle. With every child who died he felt a stab of pain, yet he had developed a strange apathy toward the family as they cried over their lost kin. How would they feel in his shoes, where his very life was death? If he cried over every child lost, as he did in the beginning, there would be nobody to care for the survivors. They thought that they had lost all hope? Try facing a child's mother, father, brother, after a failed surgery. Try confronting the hopeful families of hopeless cases, day after day, week after week, month after month.Despite the everyday horrors of his occupation, the relief felt after a successful surgery, the elation of bringing good news to a recovering refugee's family, and the hope that one day, these people would escape the bindings of this cruel reality, pushed him through each day, week, month, of the selfless existence of a refugee camp doctor.