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Make it stop. It was a simple phrase, one he had heard uttered time and time again. Never before had he realized how desperate a remark it truly was. “MAKE IT STOP!!” The agony ceased. Gasping, the Toa relaxed his body and fell forward. The chains connecting him to the wall stopped him before he fell far. “I’m sorry, what was that?” He looked up, glaring hatefully at the gold and blue armored Skakdi before him. The creature sneered at him, putting forth not even the slightest effort to hide just how much it was enjoying the Toa’s pain. With a chuckle, the Ce-Skakdi added, “I can make it stop, you know. Just give me the password. That’s all you have to do.” His tone was gentle with an undertone of menace, though such details were lost on the battered Toa. All he wanted was relief. Maybe he should give up the password—none of his brothers were coming to save him, so why should he protect them? At least this way he could save himself from— “No,” he choked, shaking his head. “No, I won’t betray them!” From across the room, another Skakdi, this one with red armor, groaned in frustration. “Can’t we just kill him?” she asked. “He’s not gonna crack. If his friends are so important to him, let’s ship him back to them piece by piece.” The Ce-Skakdi turned to her and growled, “And how will we get in then? You want to charge headfirst into a Toa stronghold?” “Yes! Don’t you want to go smash something? Besides, even if we get this mysterious password, there’s no way they’ll actually let us through!” “Listen to me, you—“ Suddenly feeling heavy, the Ce-Skakdi paused and whirled on the Toa, delivering a blow to his maskless face. As the pressure went away, the Ce-Skakdi shook his head and grinned. “Getting your strength back, I see,” he said. “But it’ll take more than a little extra gravity to save you.” Both Skakdi extended their arms. Instantly the Toa’s mind was filled with a burning sensation, as if every thought was slowly smoldering away into nothing more than ash. The searing pain drowned out everything else, leaving him with nothing but slow, endless suffering that threatened to drive him mad. “NO!!” he screamed. “NO, PLEASE! PLEASE MAKE IT STOP!” The Ce-Skakdi lowered his arms and the Toa went limp again. Angered, the Ta-Skakdi snapped, “If you let up every time he begs for mercy—“ “He will feel grateful,” the Ce-Skakdi finished. “Remember that I’ve been at this much longer than you. Ugh, this would be so much easier if your predecessor was still here. I almost regret killing that oaf…” The Ta-Skakdi narrowed her eyes. “Would you like to join him?” “Let’s not forget why we’re here.” He turned back to the Toa and grabbed his head, lifting it so that he could look into the eyes of his prisoner. “N…no…” the Toa mumbled. “You…I can’t let you enter the stronghold…you won’t get your hands on those weapons!” “So you won’t help us?” the Ce-Skakdi asked. “That’s all we want, Toa—just a little bit of help. With those weapons, we can free ourselves from Nektann’s tyranny. Won’t you help us fight for our freedom?” The Toa looked directly into the Skakdi’s eyes, his gaze filling with a resilience that should have been stripped away long ago. “Skakdi don’t fight for freedom. If you defeat Nektann, you’ll just take over Zakaz yourself…and then, a few months later, some other warlord will overthrow you. I have no love for you wretched creatures, but I refuse to have your blood on my hands.” The Ce-Skakdi frowned. After staring at his captive a bit longer, he stood up and took a few steps back. Waving to his partner, he said, “Very well then. Your blood will be on her hands.” With savage glee, the Ta-Skakdi advanced towards the Toa. The hero merely closed his eyes and waited for it all to stop.
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“Yep,” Kualus commented, “it’s definitely been through here.” He dismounted the Thornatus and waited for Onua to climb out of the cockpit. The Toa Nuva’s adaptive armor shifted as he did so, reverting to a form identical to his original armor. Before them lay the Valley of the Maze—or rather, its ruins. The once intimidating labyrinth was now nothing but a shattered wreck, with twisted walls and scrap metal jutting out at random. A layer of soot covered the rubble, leaving a dark trail running directly to the massive volcano at the heart of the mess. “Guess the Great Beings didn’t do as good a job fortifying the place as they thought,” Kualus said. “Or they never expected a fiery dragon to come charging in.” In the confusion around the destruction of the Matoran Universe, a massive Rahi known as the Kanohi Dragon had escaped its prison on the island of Xia and flown off over the plains of Spherus Magna. It was difficult to suppress the panic that followed. The Kanohi Dragon was infamous for the destruction it had caused on Metru-Nui, and for the effort and time it took for the Toa Mangai to eventually defeat it. The thought of battling it while the evacuation was in progress was an unpleasant one. Luckily, word had arrived—a nomad has spotted the Dragon flying towards the Valley of the Maze, a cryptic location that had once been home to the Great Beings. At its center was the Great Volcano, a massive source of heat that must have drawn the creature’s attention. Kualus and Onua had been dispatched immediately to subdue it once more. Onua summoned his Kanohi Kakama Nuva and activated its power, reaching out with his mind to share the burst of speed with his companion. The two Toa rocketed through the ruins in a matter of minutes, coming to a halt at the base of the volcano. “You are sure that your Mask of Rahi Control will not work on it?” Onua asked. Kualus shook his head. “My team fought this thing before, remember? It’s an old and powerful Rahi—too strong to be controlled. Might have a chance once it’s weakened, but I didn’t try last time.” “I will draw its attention, then,” the Toa of Earth said. “You attack from another angle with ice blasts. If you see an opportunity where the mask might work, take it.” His armor changed again, this time sprouting jet boosters at his shoulders and ankles. Grabbing Kualus by the arms, Onua mentally activated the equipment and rose into the air, soon reaching the top of the Great Volcano and depositing the Toa of Ice on its edge. Kualus used his Sub-Zero Spear to steady himself. The heat is more intense than I expected…where’s the Dragon? Carefully, he peered over the edge. Pipes and tubes ran down the interior of the Volcano, some sticking out of the walls and forming ledges with what appeared to be maintenance consoles. Stretched across three of these ledges was the Kanohi Dragon, its wings folded in and its eyes closed. It’s asleep? Hardly looks like an engine of destruction when it’s like this. Kualus furrowed his brow. In fact…it actually looks peaceful. This volcano has become its nest, hasn’t it? It’s found a place where it can thrive without the annoyance of intrusions. Judging by the state of the Maze, it had to work pretty hard to find it. Onua floated down and landed next to Kualus. His armor maintained its jets, but it had now morphed into a thicker, larger shell to protect its wearer from the heat. Freeze cannons were mounted on its wrists, and his Kanohi had taken the shape of a bulbous helmet with a transparent visor over his eyes. “Are you ready?” Hesitantly, Kualus replied, “This may sound crazy, but…maybe we should just leave it here.” Onua turned to his fellow Toa. Most companions would probably berate Kualus for his statement, claiming the heat was getting to him and preventing him from thinking clearly. Onua merely waited for him to explain. “During my time as a Rahaga, I developed a real bond with Rahi—flyers, especially. You can’t imagine the bliss they feel when they find the perfect nest, or the agony when a hunter takes that away from them. It may be more reptile than flyer, but I think this Dragon has found his perfect nest. All the heat he could ever want is right here, perpetually generated by the Great Beings’ technology, and there’s nothing for kio around that he has to compete with.” Kualus turned to the Dragon. “He’s not hurting anyone by staying here. What real reason do we have for evicting him?” Onua silently regarded the Rahi and considered Kualus’s proposal. He was right, of course: the only living things they had passed in their journey had been a few Vorox and handful of other creatures he could not identify, none of which had ventured anywhere near the volcano. The Kanohi Dragon had to be captured because it was dangerous…but here, there was no one for it to pose a danger too. “How do you want to explain this to Tahu?” Onua asked. Kualus shrugged. “Spherus Magna is a big place. The Dragon was here before, but it’s moved on, and we have no idea where to start looking.” Onua chuckled. “He won’t be happy, but it’ll probably go over better than saying we just let it go.” Placing a hand on Kualus’s shoulder, he added, “A wise call, brother. We shall leave this Rahi in peace.” “Thank you,” Kualus said. “…Can we get out of here now? This heat is awful!”
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Pahrak's Fortnightly Flash Fiction Contest Library
Pahrak Model ZX posted a blog entry in Mount Coronet
(With the demise of the FFFC, this entry will not be updated; it will, however, be left intact for organizational purposes.) Since I have a Master Post for Technic Coliseum and a website for Bioni-Lords, I figured I may as well compile all my FFFC entries somewhere too. Sorted by Bionicle or Off-Topic, and then organized by date with link, theme, if it received an Honorable Mention or won, and a brief summary. Bionicle: --A Machine’s Philosophy, Honorable Mention in “Surrender or Run” Mourning the death of the Matoran Universe, Turaga Whenua pays one last visit to Metru-Nui. --Woe Betide, Honorable Mention in “A Canister Ashore” What was going through the mind of the Av-Matoran building Toa Canisters in Karzahni? --Bond of Heresy, Winner of “The Village” Stripped of his title, cast out of his universe, and hated by all, Ahkmou must decide what to do next. --Averted Trial, Winner of "Trial by Fire" Kualus and Onua go on a hunt for the Kanohi Dragon. --Make It Stop, entered in "Trial by Fire" Captured by two Skakdi, a Toa must either endure torture or sell out his allies. --Risky Acquisition, entered in "Fish" Hahli takes a swim and finds an unfamiliar Rahi. --To Those Who Consider Themselves Toa, only entry in "Wake One, Wake Them All" The conflict between Toa and Bohrok could be seen a few different ways. --Hint to Greatness, entered in "Rise" An ordinary day for Ehrye leads to something unexpected. --Shattering the Mask, entered in "Rise" When Vakama finally shows up, he has surprising news for Nuhrii. --Cheatsheet, entered in "Now Only Five" Vhisola is close--so very close--to the end of her list. Off-Topic: --Between Birth and Rebirth, Honorable Mention in “Rebirth” A more pessimistic look at the concept of rebirth. --A Recluse’s Dilemma, Honorable Mention in “The Queens” A simple man with a simple problem: though he has two great loves, he can only be with one. --Magic Hour, entered in "Sunset Two lovers separated by unfathomable distance reunite on the equinox. --Preoccupation with Procrastination, entered in "Fall" A problem we've all faced. --Despair of the Divine, entered in "Unfortunate Event" The Queen of Gravity returns from battle to find her queendom in a shocking state. -
Scepter Paddle sore, head of boar, Give me a scepter and end a war! Black and white, Turkish delight, Save the land from endless night! The jester’s ditty rang through the court, each line accentuated by some ridiculous action – a backflip, a handstand, flipping his hat upside-down. Few present could contain their mirth; even the queen herself had burst into laughter. These days there was little to be happy about. All were anxious to find some way, however small, to release a bit of tension, to relax for a while. With the enemy so close, advancing so quickly, there was little opportunity for enjoyment of simple pleasures. The queen was speaking now, clearly amused. “So, it’s my scepter you want, is it?” She waved the rod in the air. It was a simple device, a shaft of wood painted white and adorned with a bulb of gold at one end. The queen smiled. “Well, take it, then.” Her face darkened suddenly. “Not like I’ll have much use for it in the near future…” The scepter spun through the air, and the jester caught it deftly, grabbing it by the bulb and flourishing it as he bowed. “Thankee, milady,” he said. “If it’s all the same, I’ll take my leave.” Four backflips later, he was gone. If the guards were perplexed by the queen’s actions, they did not show it. Times were desperate, they knew. If the jester would be prompted by the gift to provide a bit more amusement, they had little complaint. /// Walking into the chamber was like submerging oneself in a bath of ink, I thought. It was altogether impossible to see anything at all, a sensation that I’d never quite grown accustomed to. “Do you have it?” A deep voice rang out from the darkness. “Indeed I do,” was my reply. I shook the white shaft in the direction of the voice, though I knew its owner could not see it. “Good.” I felt the scepter wrested from my hand as my companion grabbed it and retreated off to the chambers blackest recesses. “I’m still not convinced this is the greatest idea.” “You have seen the horrors that this war had inflicted on both our lands. It cannot be allowed to continue.” “No,” I sighed. “No, it can’t.” I closed my eyes, knowing what was about to happen. The blackness behind my eyelids suddenly seared red as blinding light poured through the chamber. A few moments later, it had died down, and I opened my eyes again, finding a quartet of torches lighting a small table. At its center was drawn a box, separated into sixty-four internal squares. My companion was already seated at the table, impatiently tapping his own scepter. This one was painted black and topped with silver. The white one was lying across the table from him in front of a single empty chair. I sat down reluctantly. My companion tapped one of the squares in the box with his scepter. /// In a brilliant flash of light, a queen clad in black vanished from her throne. Moments later, one in white faced the same fate. A dozen guards vanished from each throne room, followed by a large contingent of nobles from their castles. Generals vanished in seconds, military leaders in armor of snow and obsidian consumed by sudden bursts of brilliance. And then the armies were gone, too, almost before they could wonder what was going on. /// The game was set up; thirty-two pieces lined the board. My companion grinned. “White moves first!” I swallowed hard and slid my first pawn forward.
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Queen of Dawn At night she sleeps in her castle high above the lowland. Two watchtowers overlook upon the village in the lowland. Guards in shining armor with red cloth guard the castle and protect her at all time. They stand outside by the doors, only letting in her mistresses in to attend to her. When the dawn arrives, the beauty of her majesty can be seen. Her face is filled with the beauty uncompared to a jewel. Her skin is soft as silk and hair long and soft as fleece. Her skin is as light as the dove, and hair dark as the soft braches of trees in the kingdom’s garden. Her royal gown is as light as the ocean to the north, and her shoes are like a mirror that can see into the hearts of everyone. When she heads to the town, the peasants give her gifts of kindness, and the nobles bow to her while offering the best they have. Every day is something new from the town’s people. One day its food of kindness or a handmade offering made of whatever they can find of high value. While sometimes it can be a show of thanks to the queen. Unlike the other royalties before her or in other lands, she never punishes them. Instead she forgives them for what they have done, and tells them not to do it once more. Crime in her land is zero, since everyone loves her, and cherishes her like a mother, even though she is only in her early 20’s. Many of the noble men try to sway her with their offerings, but all she gives them is a “Thank you,” or an “I’m delighted.” One summer day in the garden, there was a noble sitting on the bench. Sun gleaming bright white by the color of the tree leaves surrounding the garden, and a gentle breeze flowing in pushing some leaves off. He was a handsome man in a red garb and black pants with sword on his left. The glint of gold on his garb, made the light brighter in the garden. He even wore a long black cape that fell to his boots of fine leather. His hair was of a dark brown color, and long to the color of his garb. When her majesty came in her night gown and saw the man she asked, “May I ask why you are here my fine noble?” “I was just admiring your beautiful garden my lady,” He replied. “But now that you are here, the garden is more majestic than it is now.” He walked up to her and kneeled before her, then getting her hand and kissing it gently. She asked, “May I ask your name my sweet noble?” “My name is Richard Thamson. I am at your service my lady,” He responded, rising up and looking into her eyes. “I came to offer you my condolences my lady, for I have been searching for a fine woman like you. I come far from this land that you reign, and I do not come here for an offering of peace, but an offering of marriage.” “Why is it that you out of my entire nobles think that you can marry me? None of them are as intriguing as you who have come from such a land, which does not have what you desire.” She gets close to him and takes his hand. “Why don’t we have a discussion over a meal?” “I’d be delighted my lady.” The next day the noble and the queen meet again at the garden. The night shines a dim bright light into the garden. Moon and stars illuminate the trees and shine gracefully over the queen. She looks everywhere for the noble, but just as she is about to leave, he arrives. “Your beauty is even brighter at night than in the sun,” He says slowly walking to her. “I see you finally came, and your words never cease to amaze me.” “The only thing that will make it more wonderful,” he kneels down and gets her hand, and places a ring on her ring finger. “Will you take my hand in marriage?” She looks at the ring that has been placed on her. The craftsmanship on it is flawless, and the diamond in it gleams bright as the light around them. Then she looks at him and says, “Why yes, I would be delighted.” The next day, a wedding is held on the town square. The masses of people arrive to watch as the royal knot is tied after 13 years of looking for a suitable husband. The poor and the rich cheer as they walk down the aisle, and the couple waves at them with a smile. A king is born, and the queen is now even happier than she has ever been in her life.
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“How am I supposed to decide…” The question wasn’t aimed toward anyone—in fact, he was the only one in the room. Propping his head up on one arm, he stared intently at the computer screen. Two windows were open, both of which displayed a figurine with a rather outrageous price tag. One figure was a woman with long blonde hair, clad in heavy, gleaming armor and brandishing an elegant sword. The other was a slightly younger woman, this one with short red hair and wearing a flowing pink dress. Both wore the same golden crown and stood upon a circular base. He leaned back and ruffled his hair in frustration. “Come on, Jim, just pick one! Don’t let the opportunity go to waste!” The sound of the door opening nearly made him jump out of his seat. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his sister and brother enter the house—he waved, and then turned back to the screen. “You haven’t even moved from that spot, have you?” his brother asked. Jim mumbled, “I’m still thinking.” His sister approached and leaned over his shoulder, studying the screen. “Oh, you narrowed it down to these two. They’re from that video game, right?” Jim nodded. “My two favorite characters—the Queen of War and the Queen of Light. With the cost of shipping it overseas, the gift card only has enough money on it for one of them. It’s a very difficult decision.” Jim’s brother shook his head. “Jim, you’re such a loser. Why don’t you spend that card on something that actually has a use, you nerd?” Quietly, his sister asked, “Do you want me to correct him?” “Why bother?” Jim sighed. There were a lot of words for what Jim was—nerd, geek, escapist, hikikomori—and none of them had an especially positive connotation. The last term bothered him the least, but that was solely due to its Japanese origin. Addressing his brother now, Jim said, “It’s my card, I get to choose how to spend it. I don’t expect you to understand the value of collectibles, but it’d be nice if you’d stop insulting me just because I do.” “Whatever,” his brother scoffed. “Do you even have room for any more of those lame figures?” With a solemn look, Jim answered, “I’ll have to put one into storage when the new one arrives…but for now, I need to focus on the more pressing matter. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Jim returned to the screen. His sister left the room, somehow managing to drag their brother along with her, allowing Jim some peace while he weighed his options. They’re going fast. I have maybe an hour before they both run out of stock. The craftsmanship is equal, so it’s a question of which character I love the most. He sighed. And that’s what makes this so difficult... Taking a deep breath, Jim calmed down and resolved to make a decision. Accessing a video hosting site, he replayed a few scenes from the game featuring both candidates, doing his best to gauge his feelings for them both. When that was done, he closed the computer and walked into his room. It was lined with shelves, each stocked with figurines of all shapes and sizes. Closing his eyes, Jim pictured himself walking in to see one of the new figurines sitting there to greet him, and then did the same for the other. As she passed by, his sister poked her head in. “Any progress…?” Jim slowly nodded. “I’ve made a decision.” His sister offered a compassionate smile and continued on her way. Jim returned to his computer and brought up both windows for the last time. Queen of War…I’m sorry. Maybe some other time. Summoning all his resolve, Jim dragged his cursor to the top of the window and closed it. In an instant it was gone, and only the Queen of Light remained. The Queen of Light…so kind and caring…she’s someone I want to be able to see every day—someone to come home to, to wake up to. Pausing only to maximize the window, Jim clicked the button to add the Queen of Light figure to his cart. Proceeding to the checkout, he punched in the code on his gift card and smiled when the tracking number came on-screen. The Queen of Light had begun her journey, and soon she would arrive at his door. There was no doubt in his mind that the anguish of making this decision would be worth it. Jim shut the computer off and returned to his room. The Queen would not arrive for at least another week…but it may very well take him that long to find a place to display her.
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Valos readjusted his Kanohi Arthron and glanced up at the sky with a sigh. It was a while yet ‘til sundown, but already daylight was fading, veiled by the grey clouds that approached from the North and threatened to unleash their fury on the mountainside. The Av-Matoran chided himself for neglecting to pack a heavier cloak, but little could be done about it now, so far from home. “Not that a little rain will stop us, eh, boy?” he said to the Energy-hound who acted as his mount. The large canid called Axel simply snorted in response and Valos chuckled. “I thought as much. Anyway, we’d best make tracks. We don’t want to keep the villagers of Feoras waiting.” The duo hailed from Anam Nui, a great city that was the successor of Metru Nui as the capital of Matoran civilization on Spherus Magna. Valos was a courier, and on this particular day he was to deliver a number of Kanohi to a mining village far across the mountains in the East. Valos had never made the Eastern-mountains run before, but he was confident that nothing could go wrong. Though it seemed that the storm had other plans. It was soon upon him, rain coming down in torrents as the wind bent the trees and nearly tore Valos’s map from his hands. After a time, the Matoran and his hound came to a stop on a ridge that overlooked a small village that was nestled away almost completely out of sight in the little valley below. “This can’t be right,” Valos said to no-one in particular as he examined his sopping-wet map. “Nowhere on here is this village…” The sun had already vanished in the West and Valos was soaked to the bone, so he decided it was best to stop at least for a little while and rest. Axel seemed uneasy as they approached the village gate, despite Valos’s attempts to calm him, and loosed a low whine when they paused at the gate. “Ho there!” a guard called from the parapet. “What business have you in Eriu so late?” ‘Eriu…?’ Valos thought. He’d heard that name before, but knew nothing of this village. “My name’s Valos,” he told the guard, “a courier from Anam Nui, and in need of some shelter until the storm passes.” The guard ordered the gate to be opened and allow Valos passage. Just beyond, he was met by three cloaked Matoran led by a Bo-Matoran who carried a lantern. “Evening, stranger,” he said cheerfully, “what brings you all the way out here?” “I was on my way to Feoras and lost my way,” Valos explained as he dismounted Axel. “I was hoping someone might be able to point me in the right direction.” “Feoras? That’s only a few hours’ trek from here,” the Bo-Matoran said. “It’d be best if you waited until the storm let up before setting out again, though. Come; we were heading for the Turaga’s cabin just now. She loves to tell stories of the old days on nights like this.” Valos tended to Axel first, then met up with the other Matoran at the home of the village Elder. There were at least a dozen other Matoran there, all Bo-, Le- and Ce-Matoran. Their leader was a kind Ce-Turaga, and she and the Matoran greeted Valos warmly, as though he were an old friend who’d been gone a long time. They spent hours listening to the Turaga’s tales; tales that ranged from her own adventures as a Toa, to tales she heard from the Agori tribes in the South. And at the others’ behest, Valos told a few of his own tales, of some of his misadventures as a courier, and they were delighted to find that he was also a talented artist. He made a small charcoal drawing of the Turaga and presented it to her as thanks for allowing him shelter and a chance to hear her stories. Then, to the villagers’ dismay, he announced it was time he set out again. They helped him pack for the last leg of his journey, gave him directions to Feoras and bid him farewell, and asked that he visit them again soon. He promised he would, and set out into the night, and Axel seemed glad to be moving again, though Valos believed it was simply the storm that had unnerved the hound. By dawn, Valos had finally reached Feoras, and the Po-Matoran who had placed the order for the Kanohi greeted him at the gate. “We were afraid the storm had done you in,” he said. “What kept you?” “I got turned around and ended up in Eriu,” Valos told him as he unloaded Axel’s saddlebags. “Oh, really? Spooky old ghost-town, eh?” Valos paused. “Ghost-town?” “Aye; nobody’s lived there since the war wiped it out. Shame, though. I hear it was a beautiful village back in the day.” Valos said nothing more about Eriu during his time in Feoras, but on his way back to Anam Nui, he made sure to stop by the village again, and was shocked to find that nothing was left of Eriu, save the blackened buildings that made up the heart of the village. As he wandered dumbstruck about the debris, he noted that everything looked older than it should have, as though the village had, indeed, been decimated centuries ago. He soon found himself standing where he and the villagers had gathered to hear the Turaga’s stories, and wondered if he had imagined it all. Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, or his own tired mind playing with his senses. With a sigh he turned to leave, but something caught his eye. He looked up at the only wall that still stood, and there in the middle, protected by a frame and glass, was the drawing he’d given the Turaga.
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Inspired by real life, my imaginary friends in the IDES, and music from The Lion King. Under the Stars Out in Cameroon, John was entering his sixth year of service, building schools and homes for families. When he received the phone call, he remained silent, said "yes" several times, and then hung up. "Oh my God!" he gasped, and he let himself crouch down, with his elbows on his knees and one hand in his dusty face. He continued working, but didn't say anything to anyone. "Are you right?" asked Kate, sensing that not all was well with John. Whenever he was in a strained mood, everyone seemed to be able to know. How they knew, he wasn't quite sure, because he was never able to tell when others were not doing fine, but he was different. If this had been any sort of bad news, he would have lied and said he was fine, but he couldn't say that. "I can't talk about it now." They finished their day's work, spend time with their African friends, but John resigned early and started packing with some help of his friend Roger. "Still not talking?" said Roger. "John, your poker face is atrocious." John sat down upon one of his bags. There was very little energy in his movements, and he continued to avoid eye contact. He was withdrawn, not in the same place as Roger. When he talked, he sounded as if he was about to cry. "I've been off in Cameroon for six years...Things have felt so right, but my life is changing so much. I've been so lucky to have you as a friend all this time, and Kate. Have so much on my mind right now, and I don't know what it all means." Roger knelt down next to John. "Do you know where to start?" "My father's dying, Roger, and he's only fifty," said John. "I haven't seen him in six years." He began to cry, and Kate walked in. "The last conversation I had with him was an argument," continued John. "He told me I should go to college, but I thought that my calling was here. But I miss home. Most of all, I miss Mom. When my parents got divorced, I almost never got to see her. I only saw her once a month, and I never spent much time with her during my life except for when I was a little kid, about nine years old. I haven't had my childhood in a long, long time, and I always figured it would come back, because I would eventually find it and I could just have that one special moment with everyone in the family and all my old friends and that thing I had when I was young would be with me again, you know? Now I can never go back, because in order to have that I need my entire family there, and now my father's dying and I'm never going to have that relationship that I wanted, like I thought I was planning on returning to America in two or four years, a changed man, because it made sense. I thought he would see who I became, see the types of things I dedicated my life to, and he would be proud of me and love me for it, and my mother would love me because she always loves me, and I could have everything I always wanted, but - but..." John returned to crying and tears streamed down his cheeks. Kate sat next to him and held his hand. "John, I'm so sorry," she said. Then she embraced him. Roger joined in and turned it into a group hug centered around John. "I want to tell you so many stories about him," said John. "I know you can do that," said Roger. "You're the best person I know when it comes to telling stories. I'll listen to every word." They finished packing, and after a couple of days they talked with everyone there who knew them and explained why they had to leave. Since they did not have a car, they walked the whole way to Yaoundé. The hike lasted for a couple days, since they each had their own bags to carry. The second night, as they settled in an open field of grass, started a fire, and unfolded their sleeping bags, John looked up at the stars and thought about Heaven. "Grandpa, I know that I talk to you sometimes. I guess Dad's going to be there with you soon." Kate and Roger sat to his right, poking the fire with sticks. They talked somewhat, but most of all, they listened to John tell stories about his father. "And the thing is, I guess I'm just upset that he never got to know me," he said, answered by the distant, ever-present crackle of the fire. "He was never good enough for me when Mom wasn't there to support him, so maybe I thought that my relationship could never be so deep because it stopped feeling the way that it should have felt. I've spent the better part of my life hoping that everything would be perfect again and that I could have the family I had when I was a kid, or at least, that's what I always thought. I always thought it was actually running away, but now it seems the exact opposite. When I turned twenty, I suffered depression because I was growing, because I was shocked at how far away my childhood was, and I was in despair because my next birthday would never be eight or nine, and that the one moment that always stuck out to me, the one that my whole life seems to be centered around, could last fore..." He looked and saw Kate and Roger sleeping, the orange firelight illuminating their calm, peaceful faces. No longer aware, but still there for him. Maybe that one moment that was his entire life was behind him. Maybe his entire life was now in this moment. "God, make this last." 24601
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Hope of Rebirth SHE AWOKE IN PAIN on the cold, hard stone floor. Deep gashes had been ripped into her skin all across her arms and body. They were healing, half black and half crimson, but she knew they would never heal completely. It wouldn’t be long before she tore them open again. Black scorch marks riddled her skin, permanent, unable to be washed away—water was a poison, burning like fire would a normal human. She brushed her pale-blond hair behind her ears and sat up slowly, looking around her to see the prison-like abode where she slept each night. Atop a cliff; huge, jagged rocks surrounding her, stone floor, no ceiling. It was her punishment to herself, unwilling to live anywhere in comfort. And for just a brief moment, just like every morning, she had hope. Hope that somehow she had been changed. Had been healed. Was no longer the monster that she had been the day before. But then, just like every morning, that hope was extinguished as it began to happen. She began to change. Her back became rough and thick, the skin drying and cracking as it turned scarlet. Gigantic, leathery wings grew from her back and extended until each one could wrap around her body two- or three-fold, ending with two spiked points. Her fingers became callused and sharp; curved, cone-shaped nails protruded from the ends, over an inch long each. Her feet followed suit, becoming more animalistic with claws to match her hands. The blood of the scars seemed to brighten as her whole skin became tougher and paler. She was still recognizably human, yet bestial. She shrieked and bellowed, trying to fight the transformation. But she couldn’t. She clawed at her body, drawing fresh blood and reopening old scabs. Her stomach growled and with a haunting fear she knew: it was time to feed. Her legs moved as if under their own power and she leaped into the air, burgundy wings extending. Below her valleys and forests covered the ground with a dirt road dividing them. She flew to the forest, keeping close to the tree tops. Her nostrils flared and she knew human flesh was nearby. Her body shot down toward the scent until finally she saw a young boy in the distance among the trees, playing in a river by himself, his parents nowhere to be seen. She clawed at herself and used all of her strength to stop, but the beast inside her was relentless. Fangs extended from her canines, the scent of blood close. She tried to push them back into her skull but instead drew blood from her thumbs. Desperate to stop, she clawed at herself again and again, ripping her stomach open, trying anything to stop herself from destroying the young life. But the fire inside her quickly healed the lacerations and staunched the bleeding; her clawing had only caused more pain—failed to stop her flight toward her next victim. She landed on the forest frondescence and ripped into his flesh, burning his body to a crisp before devouring it, all the time fighting her internal demon. When it was finished she quickly took off again, in control, slamming into several trees and branches in a crazed dash before flying above the tree line and back to her home before she could catch the scent of another. What have I done? The pained thought that went through her mind day after day, mistake after mistake. But today was worse. Today she had gone too far, past the point of return. She landed on the cold stone and sat down, secluded from civilization, hidden behind her haven of large rocks. Her arms wrapped around her knees, and her blond hair fell into her face. Her wings were still expanded, wrapped around her like a shield and a blanket as her nails and teeth receded into their normal appearance. A tear formed in the pit of her azure eye, stinging as the salty liquid seeped into the deep gash around her eyelids. As she thought about what she had done, more tears fell. They burned into her flesh, steam rising from her cheeks in their path, but she allowed them to fall, keeping her arms where they were. She allowed the pain, knowing she deserved it—and much worse. She wished to die, to end the cruelty that she inflicted upon innocent victims. Today had been the worst—a child. What have I done? she repeated in her mind again as even more tears fell. She hugged herself tighter, weeping bitterly, and awaited the new dawn when she knew she would hunt—and kill—again. But she couldn’t let that happen. She had to hope that one day, somehow, she might become reborn—no longer the monster, but a beautiful creature. She opened her eyes slowly, looking off the cliff and into the sky. She needed help. She had to stop. Become reborn. Live under the oppression of this ailment no longer. But can I? she wondered. I have to. ~ :: ~ A/N: Written for the "Rebirth" Fortnightly Flash Fiction Contest, this story was inspired by the amazing drawing Kaida (careful, the topic is unfortunately dead) by the extraordinary Ezorov. Many thanks to Katie for allowing me to use that as inspiration. I really enjoyed writing this character, and I hope to write more about her. But for now, enjoy this piece that stands on its own--comments and constructive criticisms are welcome.
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Island boy you are, running and digging in the sand nothing to check your spirit but the bashing swells of the waves; Each summer you’re growing Just as the heat warms the land. Island boy you are, the same face each season, Despite the costume changes, dishwasher to cook to ride attendant and more with your many labor ranges. Island boy you are, running into that sunset photograph, chasing a view of a sunset in the distance, Sleeping in a chair on the beach after, hand clutching a map. Island boy free, gazing into the sky, Incompetent in here or there but that’s alright, Right now you are living the dream, and watching the tide. Island boy you are, in that final race through the sand, One last sweeping gaze through the island Now moved into the city One step closer to a man. **** Little poem I had to write for a class, thought it fit in with FFFC 6: "Rebirth"
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Home Videos Everything is gray. The sky, draped low like a blanket over you, is gray. The rain, which could’ve been landing like dust in the wind, or like iron anvils (you wouldn’t have noticed either way), is gray. The people, still as statues in this deluge, are gray. The casket, carried with sad dignity to its final resting place, is gray. Your soul, with pieces torn off from it, is gray. This is your world now, you decide. A gray world; where nothing lives so much as it just exists. Where nothing is joyful, as much as it just is. Your world is gray. You are gray. REWIND The sun is shining today, the birds are singing and the throng of people gathered inside this church are cheering and weeping with joy. But none of that registers with you. Right now, you could be in the middle of a war, with bullets flashing inches from your face, and you wouldn’t have noticed. Right now, you could be in the darkest part of space, floating in an endless void, and you would never have realized it. Because today, at this moment, you’re busy kissing the most beautiful woman in the world. Because amidst it all, the songs and tears and hoots and hollers, your ears still ring with those two beautiful words, I do. FAST-FORWARD It is silent; a silence bred of sterile, white walls and thorny knots of dread. You sit there, clinging vainly to your wife, your love; as if such physical contact can protect the two of you from the news you both know is coming. The door opens, and the news walks in, this time in the form of a haggard young doctor, lines of sadness and worry running across his face as he watches you both in equal parts cold precision and crushing guilt. And then he says the words you knew would come. And you feel your love stiffen in dawning sorrow. And you hear your world crumble apart. And though you don’t see it, outside in the sky, the sun hides itself behind a thunderhead, as if in grief. FAST-FORWARD There are five things in the graveyard at this moment: - A shining new tombstone. - A broken mess of poorly-drawn lines. - A mangled, wretched howl. - God. - You. The tombstone is in front of you, and the howl is coming from the mess of lines, and the mess of lines is cursing God, and you are that mess of lines, the howl is the verdict that God should be that mess of lines instead, because what has He done in His divine might to stop that new tombstone from being put into the ground, and what has He done to help you from becoming these poorly-drawn lines, and why should He be allowed to sit atop His lofty heights and watch you wallow in your own vain howls of rage, and why is she gone? Because that’s the question, isn’t it? Why? Why? REWIND You never thought that tea could taste so good right now, even if its bitterness make your uvula dance in your throat and force your stomach to keep the vile mixture down. Of course, you never had such a good reason to have this drink before; the most beautiful woman in the world has never asked you to join her before. You would’ve been a fool not to accept the invitation, but now that you’re here, it dawns on you just how outclassed you are. This must be some kind of cosmic joke; a hope spot to make the moment when fate yanks the rug out from under you all the more painful. Why in the world would a woman like that ask a guy like you over? But nothing bad happens, nothing goes wrong. God doesn’t pull out the rug, the celestial laugh track doesn’t open up. Everything’s good, except for the tea. But that’s a small price to pay. REWIND The light is dusty and yellow in the kitchen; grief and worry clog the room like unwanted house guests. You and your love sit across from each other, across the dining room table, across three feet of air, across the plains of eternity. Resignation has fallen over both of you like tailored cloaks, and the only thing to do now is to ask that final question, so daunting in its simplicity. What next? FAST-FORWARD You turn your head and realize that the most wonderful little girl in the world, your little girl, is asking if you’d like to play tea party. You pause, because that’s been your signature reaction these past weeks, and then say that yes, you’d love to play tea party with her. She grins, and you realize that that’s the first grin you’ve seen in a while. And then you grin back, knowing that this is the first time that you’ve grinned in a while. You follow your most wonderful little girl away, looking forward to some tea, imaginary or otherwise. And though you don’t see it, outside in the sky, the sun peeks back out from behind the clouds. PAUSE PLAY
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A Rebirth of a Hero If anyone knows war, it’s the sole body that’s lying on the grey ashed ground. War was taken over the city of New York, and the sky is ash grey. Who knows why the sky is like that? The light penetrating the sky is the dim burnt orange rays of the sun. Buildings on fire, people screaming and the sound gun fire pierce the air. The lone young soldier lays their motionless. He was shot in multiple times in the chest by machine gun fire. His gun is nowhere to be found. Only his pale ash body and ash covered clothes are on him. His age appears to be around 16, with a slight mustache growing on him. His hair is a black to dark-brown color. He only has a brown trench coat, finger-less gloves, jeans, and a grey t-shirt. This lone body was the fighting hope of a rebellion that has now been reduced to nothing. His name is Ricardo, born into a world where corruption and dishonesty run rampant. It wasn’t until the UN decided to take complete control of the nations that an uprising began. Ricardo vowed that this wickedness will end soon with his power, for it seemed that he wielded a power that no man could ever possess the power of fire. He aided the rebellion in numerous victories across the US. Thus ending his life here, in a park filled with trees and a small lake or pond. Then suddenly the wind starts blowing to the east, then to the north. Has unknown force known to man has come to aid humanity in its darkest hour? The winds then blow to the west, then to the south. Each gust of wind going faster and faster, soon the wind comes in all directions towards his body. He rises from the earth and stands limply as he is picked up by the winds. His blood starts recirculating and his heart starts beating. Slowly then faster and faster, as soon as it reaches the maximum heart rate, it drops. His heart rate returns to normal. A new dawn has risen. A hero resurrected. Revenge now flows through his veins. His hands turn to fists, and then he releases them, showing the bright fire flowing across his hand, like a smooth flowing river. His eyes begin to close tighter, signaling his reawakening. Rise savior of Earth. The world needs you more than ever. He then opens his eyes, revealing a dark brown color, and then they turn a shade of red. “I’m back.”
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Thirty-Eight The man ruffled through the pages of the progress report before him with a sigh. They were getting somewhere, sure, but they weren’t doing it quickly enough. How long could this keep up before the funding was cut? His investors had sunk millions, billions of dollars into this project. How much more would it take? One of the pages came into focus. A summary of the past several tests, it seemed. Subject Thirty: No repair whatsoever. Unidentified cause. Subject Thirty-One: Repairs mostly successful but incomplete. Unable to continue. Subject Thirty-Two: Subject rejected completed repairs. Subject Thirty-Three: Uncontrolled growth far beyond intended scope of repairs. Unidentified cause. Subject Thirty-Four: Repairs completed and accepted. Synchronization of mind unsuccessful. Subject Thirty-Five: Repairs completed and accepted. Mind synchronized momentarily and desynchronized again. Further efforts unsuccessful. Subject Thirty-Six: Repairs completed and accepted. Synchronization of mind unsuccessful. Subject Thirty-Seven: Repairs completed and accepted. Synchronization of mind unsuccessful. Unsuccessful, unsuccessful, unsuccessful. Always unsuccessful. Perhaps what they were trying to do was impossible, then. Perhaps Subject Thirty-Five’s synchronization was simply an anomaly, just a glitch in the computers that never really happened. Perhaps no one really ever could– A sharp rap on the door interrupted his thoughts. He called the visitor in. One of the scientists. One with little authority, sent as a courier. “Sir, we’re beginning testing on Subject Thirty-Eight. Would you like to–” “No,” he interrupted. He sighed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be…” He shook his head. “Just go on without me.” The scientist nodded and was gone. The man sat in silence for a few moments before his curiosity overtook his discouragement. With a tap of the spacebar he brought his computer to life and a few clicks later was remotely observing the laboratory three floors below. Subject Thirty-Eight lay unmoving on a table at the center of the room. A tangled mass of tubes and cords seemed to cover every inch of his skin, each connected to one of two dozen machines of various purposes. An ugly, gaping red hole adorned the man’s chest. Dead. Researchers swarmed the room, checking and re-checking each machine, each dial, each screen and interface for any possible errors. So it continued for a several minutes until suddenly, slightly to the man’s surprise, the movement halted completely. One of the head researches had spoken: the time for preparation was finished. He strode to a computer in the corner of the room and typed a command. All eyes were fixed intently on Subject Thirty-Eight’s lifeless form. The man pressed a button on his computer and a window appeared displaying the contents of the screen in the laboratory. Not much of interest; just a flashing string of commands flying across the screen far too quickly for the eye to follow. The man’s eyes flitted back to the image of Subject Thirty-Eight. A remarkable transformation was underway. As he watched, the exposed organs within Subject Thirty-Eight’s chest began to repair themselves, knitted back together by some unseen hand. His muscles and skin then did the same, inch by inch reforming and closing the wound. His complexion began to change, color returning to his pallid face as artificial life coursed through his veins. And then nothing. He sighed. This was where the others had stopped, too, ever since Thirty-Four. He pressed the Alt key and aimed his finger for F4. But for the briefest of moments, he hesitated, his eyes dropping back to Subject Thirty-Eight. A fist clenched. Unclenched. Clenched. Unclenched. And then a pair of eyes snapped open, darting around the room. Arms reached back, pushing what should have been a corpse into a seated position. Subject Thirty-Eight was alive.
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It’s late, and there would be nothing sweeter than the back of my eyelids, but the bed feels dirty when it’s this comfortable. It’s as though skin and sheets are weaving themselves together, and while I sleep comfortable, waking up feels shameful, each day acknowledging these poor habits of living. It’s been a few weeks, and a change is in order. With a tug, the covers are strewn all over the floor, a jumbled mess of spreads and feet tangled together. I kick myself free, winding the sheets into a ball, and pry the elastic band of the bedspread from the underside of the corners. It snaps back, but after a willful tug, it snaps free, flying into my hand. The comforter is still where the sheets have covered, and though I’ve seen it countless times, in the moment it is unfamiliar. A shudder is given when realized exactly how long those spreads have been on there. Routine keeps the sight sound, but my laziness as of late has made me forgotten the bareness of that lone mattress. Countless pen and drool marks stain where my head has passed out, I note as I wrap it all up into a ball. There’s probably other filth in there as well, remembering some sweaty clothing that went missing a few days ago; I regard the pile cautiously as I carry it to the hamper down the hallway, clapping my hands clean as I ditch it in the basket. Crisp, new sheets are under my arm as I walk back to my room, my bare arm feeling the cold of the closet they’ve sat in. With a toss, I watch them fall slowly onto the bed, a rejuvenated look to the bed as I tuck them into the mattress. A car passes the bedroom window, sounding for a second in the darkness, and I wait for a second, as the next sheet is unfolded. Soon enough the white covers replace the blue checkered pattern, and it looks almost tasteful above the cluttered floor. I pull the cover back and climb in, as tiredness over comes me. The sheets are cold, but I can already feel my body heat warming them up, and I feel better, a smile on my face as my eyes fade to the darkness. *** I wake up the next morning, a new dawn shining into my window. My arms rub against the warmth in the bed, and I relax one minute longer before beginning the start of my day. Maybe I’ll even make the bed. ********** The only thing I could come up with. It was a good idea in my head, it just sounds realllllllly cliche here. Any thoughts?
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The Trapper Some call me mad. Well, not really some. Many. Many call me mad. Actually, now that I think about it, it would probably be more accurate to say that everyone calls me mad, for indeed, each and every being who resides in Ko-Koro has no doubt questioned my sanity at one point or another. I dare say that even the Turaga, in his infinite wisdom, has had his doubts as to whether I’m in full control of my mental faculties. My name is Korako, and I am the one and only lobster trapper on the island of Mata Nui. It’s this occupation, you see, that has led my fellows to call me mad. Just because I get up before dawn each day and trek for kio and kio through the Drifts to the only stretch of beach in Ko-Wahi; just because I take my boat out to check my traps regardless of whether the sea is as still as the surface of a mirror (pro tip: it never is) or as wild as a stampeding Kane-Ra (pro tip: it always is); just because I hunt Rahi that could crack my arm in two with a snap of their claws – just because of that, they think I’ve lost my mind. Can you imagine? Yeah, I know. But I don’t mind. They don’t seem to mind, either, when I bring in a big catch and they get something other than Mountain Mahi for dinner. Anyway, I was on my way to work one morning when I saw something unusual… And then I kept going, brought in a decent catch, headed back home, and made a decent profit selling my lobsters in the market. The end. Hah! You thought I was gonna tell you some great story, didn’t you? Hah, ha… No? That wasn’t funny? Hm. Okay, then. Well, you’re in luck, ‘cause I actually do have a story for you. Monday. Worst day of all. Oh, no, it’s not that I don’t like my job, ‘cause I love it. There’s nothing I’d rather be doing with my life. It’s just that sometimes, when you wake up hours before sunrise on the first day of the week, when the air outside chills you to the bone even with your natural resistance to cold, you wonder whether this is such a great idea after all. Those were the thoughts running through my head on this particular Monday morning. I slung my bag over my shoulder, still half-asleep, and slowly plodded out of the village and toward the Drifts. My feet instinctively followed the familiar path through the endless expanse of snow, which was good, since I definitely wasn’t conscious enough to find my way on my own. Eventually I realized that I was standing on a boulder overlooking the short, rocky stretch of beach where I launched my boat each morning. And this morning, I thought as I hopped off the boulder, would be no different. A few quick strides took me to my boat, hidden behind a few of the larger rocks adjacent to the boulder. Not that anyone would be dumb enough to try to steal it, but you never could be too careful. I was dragging the vessel toward the beach when I saw something odd on the horizon. At first I couldn’t quite discern what had caught my attention, but a few adjustments to my mask’s eyepiece brought into focus a single blue light, blinking steadily in the distance and seemingly growing larger by the moment. Before long I could make out the source of the light – it was coming from a large metallic cylinder, bobbing up and down with the waves. At this point, most would have wondered just what in karzahni the cylinder was, because surely no one on the island had ever seen anything like it. Personally, though, I was just thinking: Spirit, I hope that thing doesn’t mess up my traps. A few minutes later the cylinder was clearly visible even without my eyepiece. It was quite large, even more so than I had first assumed. Two, maybe three Matoran could have fit inside. The blinking light was located at the apex of a dome over one end of the cylinder, and four other steady lights glowed dimly at equal intervals around the base of the dome. Just as I began to wonder what could possibly be inside, the canister collided with the rocky shore. The lights flashed brilliantly, blinding me for a few moments. The sight that greeted me when my vision cleared was even stranger than the canister itself. A large being – easily twice my height, lay face down on the ground, groping around for what apparently was his arm. The appendage, for some reason, was located a few feet away. Weirder still, when he finally managed to get ahold of it, he just shoved it into his shoulder and started waving it around like this sort of thing happened every day. (Pro tip: It didn’t). The being rose to his feet then, and I got the feeling just by the way he stood that he possessed extraordinary power. Instinctively, I did what I always do when I meet a Muaka or some other Rahi in the Drifts – I stood perfectly still, scarcely breathing, praying to the Spirit that this being wouldn’t notice me. This being seemed a bit smarter than the average Muaka, though. He looked straight at me, mask glowing faintly, his eyes seeming to pierce my soul. Still, I didn’t move. This seemed to amuse the being. Smirking faintly, he examined his hand, and then he raised it toward me, palm out. For a brief moment I saw a bolt of ice flash through the air. When my body heat finally melted the block of ice around me, the being was gone.
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Time had stopped.He was frozen above the ground, unmoving. The metal staff pulsed with red terror in his grasp.The Turahk stood before him in a crimson haze, ghastly Kraata exposed and writhing. The Rahkshi’s claws gripped the cracked ground, as if instilling fear in the stone itself.All at once time began to flow again. Jaller was thrown to the earth and skidded along the floor. His view began to fade as his friend kneeled at his side.“I’m supposed to make the sacrifice.” Jaller blinked awake. The cold metal was pressing in on him. His fevered breath reverberated around his head in the dark confines of the canister. Seawater rushed against the tube’s surface; a curtain of rain billowed against the metal. Lightning sizzled and flared, thunder pounded, the noise easily audible through the canister walls. The Ta-Matoran concentrated on breathing calmly. He’d make it through this one way or another. He hoped that the others, his close friends and companions, would survive the ordeal as well. If not, Jaller would have them on his conscience forever. But as the Captain of the Guard, he was accustomed to that responsibility. He flashed back to Mata Nui again. The day the Pahrak attacked Ga-Koro... the village had almost been destroyed by the onslaught of the Krana-driven creatures. If it hadn’t been for – His reverie was interrupted by a blinding flash of red light and a groaning sound like a doomed ship’s last breath. Electricity blazed along the metal, and as it coursed through his body, Jaller screamed in pain. The canister shook, screeching in reaction to the blast. As suddenly as it had struck, the red lightning had ended. Jaller lay barely conscious in the seabound canister, unaware of what was going on. And it was only a short time later that six metal tubes slid up against the jagged edge of a weary land- canisters ashore at last. Jaller opened his eyes again. This time the cold metal really was pressing in- or was he pressing out? A sheet of rain pattered against the Toa canister. The thunder grumbled again, though farther off this time.Jaller looked down. He refused to believe it. He felt the power of… himself. The lid of the canister hissed and slid forward an inch. It was unsealed, just waiting to be opened.With a yell, Jaller pushed against the metal disk, launching it across the rocks with a clang. Four canisters followed suit, one having been opened before his. A white-clad hand reached down and clasped a red one, pulling his brother up. - - - - - The Toa Inika stood upon the rocks of Voya Nui. The storm raged around them, as it had for as long as they could remember.But they were unafraid. They would stand together in the lightning. (Ambage Fortnightly Flash-Fiction Contest: A Canister Ashore) Eh. Not great, but I felt like actually writing something this time. Now if only I'd finished it properly... XD
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A Glimmer of Hope We were for sure that we would have died that day, but we didn’t if it wasn’t for a faint glimmer of hope that arrived early that day. This is the story of me and my squad, and their mission that lead them to unexpectedly find a Toa. My name is Samora, a Matoran of Fire that wears a black Huna and is part of the scout team of the S.M.D.F. I have been told that I’m arrogant and make irrational decisions, but I never agreed with them until now. My team was made of me, Faron, Baols, and Lavol. It was a cold winter day in Spherus Magna, and my team was urging for some action. Faron is an Earth Matoran that wears a dark purple Pakari and has a harsh deep voice, which sounds like metal against metal. Then the commanding general of Outpost 29 came to us and said, “Men, we have a new mission for you.” He handed me the intel. “Not too long ago, a caravan was heading out to Outpost 3 Alpha, when we suddenly lost contact from them. Thier last known location was near the Bay of Tranquility. I’m counting on you boys to bring back those men alive. No excuses.” We headed out to the bay when Lavol asks, “What do you think happened to those guys?” Lavol was our Vanguard who carried a disk launcher. He was a Ta-Matoran that wore a yellow Hau and his voice sounded like an ocean breeze. I didn’t even have an answer for he said. We’ll all find out when we get to their location. We arrived at the bay finding that the caravan was trashed. No one was there at all, except for a canister out on the shore. Baols spotted it first near one of the deceased men that was with the caravan. Baols was a Le-Matoran who rarely talked, but preferred doing so with firepower. He analyzed the canister to see if it had a way to open it. When he touched the center of the canister, to top flew open. We readied our weapons for an attack. The smoke cleared and we finally saw what was inside. Inside the canister was a Toa, but not just any Toa. He was a Toa of Light. His yellow eyes opened and observed the area around him. He got out of the canister and his armor shined in the sunlight. We bowed down in respect to seeing such a mighty hero in these times. “I am Laght, Toa of Light,” He said with a booming voice. We knew that these Toa were a faint glimmer of hope in finally ending the war, but very few existed. Suddenly he heard movement in the distant trees ahead of us. Out came the retched Acid Bots that hid well in the thick bush of the forest. They fired out streams of acid at us; we dodged their attacks and fired away. But the only one who stood his ground was Laght. Laght fired out beams of Light out of his hand. It blinded killed the bots instantly, breaking their eye and causing systems to fail. He then took out his staff, which looked like three thornax launcher parts put together to make his staff. He then fired a beam out from the staff, into the forest in front of us. Birds flew away as the light went through the trees. Then three Giant Bots came out armed and ready. He fought back hard, but they kept coming at us. Lavol fired disks at one’s face, and it soon falled. But the second one fired a blast at Lavol’s head and he fell back, his head no longer there. Laght fired a beam of Light directly at the center of the Bot, which gave away to a gaping hole in the middle. But the last one was charged with ion cannon. It fired at Baols and killed him, reducing him to ash. Then it fired a charge at Laght, which he fell to the ground, not before firing a shot at it to the head. He lay there motion less. He yellow eyes masked but the sun hitting his gold Miru. We buried him in the canister in which he came to us with. He saved our lives from an ambush that would have cost all of our lives. To this day his body lays in the canister that lay ashore on the Bay of Tranquility.
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Message in a Jar A faint glimmer on the horizon swelled from a line of light into the burning disk of the sun: the dawn of another morning. Warihu was already awake, sitting on a log at the edge of the tiny island’s forest and watching as the sky turned first indigo, then velvet, then the warm hues of fire that lit the water with a billion brilliant sparks. He had long ago given up hope that any seafaring vessel was likely to come across him and Koraia on the island they now called home, for here, hoping only interrupted surviving. The shipwreck he still remembered foggily: Their small sailboat had been tossed and turned about so many times by the storm, and so much time had slipped by without notice, who could know where they were? They had no dependents to mourn their losses, only a few casual acquaintances who had never understood why a pair of Onu-Matoran would take to the waves, anyway. He took up a stick, looked over it indifferently, and drew circles in the sand between his feet: the Matoran letter for S, followed by O and then another S. He only let it sit a moment before scuffing the sand with his right foot, casting the stick from him, and standing to stretch. Then he saw the glint of glass on the border of water and sand. * * * “Koraia? — have we something to write a message on?” Koraia shifted on his bed of leaves underneath a leafy overhang. He showed about as much inclination to answer Warihu’s question as the trees surrounding the Onu-Matoran campsite. “Koraia!” Again Koraia shifted, but this time he offered a response muffled by drowsiness: “Nn — what?” “Do we have anything we can use to write a message?” Koraia opened his eyes and looked blankly at Warihu, who was digging through the pile of items salvaged from the shipwreck. The pile was small but disorganized: Neither Onu-Matoran had bothered to sort it in the week they had dwelled on this island. Warihu continued: “Tablets — anything.” “Oi — what? Why?” “Because a jar washed up on this shore. Here” — Warihu halted his search and hefted the jar for emphasis — “it has a lid; we could stick something inside...” “So? Throw it out.” Koraia appeared to think the same of the conversation, for he turned over to face away from Warihu. Warihu didn’t relent. “So, we can send a message. For help.” “To whom?” The question gave Warihu pause. Half a minute passed in silence before Koraia’s breathing again became slow and heavy. Warihu inhaled deeply to calm his nerves and resumed his search. “To whomever,” he responded. * * * The firewood, engulfed in flame, crackled and popped from heat. The faint halo it cast reached outward a couple meters in a rough circle. Warihu sat just within the light’s perimeter, his legs tucked against his body, his right hand holding a piece of bark whilst his left carved Matoran lettering onto its surface. Koraia sat on the opposite side of the fire, the center of his face illuminated by the amber light while shadows wrapped around the rest of his head and gathered above his brow like a second mask. His yellow eyes watched as Warihu worked. HELP — SHIPWRECKED ON ISLAND BETWEEN SOUTHERN CONTINENT AND XIA. “You think anyone’s going to come?” Koraia suddenly asked. Warihu paused. “Probably not.” A chance in finding one star out of a million, he added to himself. “Then why bother?” Warihu glanced to the sky. “Because there’s a chance it will.” Koraia acquiesced, but hesitantly, turning his gaze first to the night sky and then the flickering patterns of flame as if looking for a satisfactory answer. He must have found none, for his lip twisted slightly, and he remained silent. Warihu finished his message on the opposite side of the bark: PLEASE SEND ASSISTANCE. He stopped. His message was brief, but he could fit no more of worth onto the small piece of bark, and bark of bigger size wouldn’t fit within the glass jar. Koraia looked up just as Warihu closed the lid over the message. “I’m going to send it off,” said Warihu. Koraia nodded, though his focus seemed to be elsewhere. “You can come with me if you’d like to.” Another absentminded nod. Warihu, assuming his friend meant to remain by the fire, stood up to leave. Koraia stood up, too. * * * Warihu checked the jar’s lid twice before he began wading into the water. Koraia stood on the shore, not offering to help but also not returning to camp. Both Matoran were silent. When the water reached Warihu’s waist, he reared back and threw the jar. It somersaulted through the air and landed with a splash some meters out to sea. A second passed before its glassy glint was again visible, bobbing atop the water like some strange marine creature. Warihu watched it go. Then he turned and half walked back to shore, half let the waves carry him thither. “We’ll make sure the jar didn’t wash back in tomorrow,” said Warihu. Koraia nodded. Warihu waited for him to say something, but he seemed too tired to speak. Thus silenced, the pair trekked back to the periphery of the inland trees as, behind them, the tide drew nigh over the shore like a blanket tucked over the chin of the sleeping island. * * * * * I have nothing to say apart from the title of this story being blatantly uninspired because I was blatantly uninspired. Constructive criticism is welcome.
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Rebirth An explosion of light, a shockwave of heat, pain that roared through bones and muscles alike, fire that coursed through the veins, and a dull throb of otherworldly pain, resounding in your tormented soul, as it was ripped from your body and subjected to ablution in the cold, biting wind of the realm of judgment. Rebirth. As she lay on the sand, as she took her first breath, the frosty air filling her lungs, she could only gasp, between quivering breaths that did nothing to soothe the burning desire for oxygen. The beach, with its cruel, cold waves that lapped incessantly at her unprotected form, an endless sea of crushed glass as she stared at it from her position on the white sand, eyes burning from contact with the saline crystals that surrounded her, crystals that attached to her shining armour and supple skin, unwilling to leave of be brushed off. As she lied on the sand, she noticed that it was cool, almost icy, an amazing revelation to her, for the sensation of sensory stimulation was a pleasant, but fading memory, a memory that she was amazed to have witnessed twice. She need to stand; Feeling wasn’t enough. She wanted to see this sea of crushed glass from above, she wanted to laugh, to scream, to cry, anything to hear the sound of her own voice, and she wanted to find something to eat, to indulge in both tasting food, and absorbing the aromas she found herself dearly missing. She managed to rise to her knees. As she screamed in agony, slamming her palms on the yielding sand, spine arched and mouth open as the prolonged shriek of pain continued, she felt her muscules rippling with energy, her bones shrieking in agony as they were charged with unseen power, and veins aflame with a roar of pure ferocity. It seemed she wasn’t ready to stand. Remaining on her knees, hands shaking as she breathed, every slow inhale accompanied by a spasm of pain, and every exhale forcing scorching air through her throat with a whine of pain and a gasp of anguish. Yet, even as her own body cried out for mercy, as her fortitude failed her, her mind continued with renewed resolve, and her soul soared with determination. As her muscules squealed in agony, as her head pounding as if it was bursting, and as her skeleton seemed to disintegrate, she began to rise, striving to stand as her body seemed to liquefy. The pain subsided instantly. She had risen. It could hardly be believed; the act of putting all of her weight on two feet seemed like a task entirely impossible to her. And yet she was standing, master of her body, statuesque in her erect posture. The beach looked much different from above, the infinity of being at eye-level with what appeared to be a sea of crushed glass suddenly replaced with a bird’s-eye view of a large, but far from sea-esque bank of sand, circling a forest floor, which, as she discovered when she craned her neck skyward, lead to a mountain of grey and white, snow-capped, and seeming to reach above the clouds themselves. Still stunned in disbelief, she rotated, her legs shaky as she turned, equally amazed by the truly infinite ocean. That was when it caught her eye, the ugly, unnaturally shiny object. Silver, and longer than she was tall, the cylinder, for that was its shape, save for the half-sphere vertical extremities, was in sharp contrast to the surrounding environment in every way possible. Crouching down to its height, she laid her hand on the metal, unpleasantly surprised by the lifeless cold that greeted her. Yet, as she stared at it, thoughts and emotions swelled up inside her. Is this from whence I came? Is this the womb that gave me life? She had faint memories of things long past, but this unnatural, painfully shiny object met all of the criteria she could apply to judge an object to be what had given her birth. And these memories, of faces and locations, of friendly words, heated arguments, and a strange thing that she wanted to call love, but thought it too harsh and cruel to be named so kindly, could they possibly be more than dreams, ideas that she had created before her birth, on this sea of crushed glass that wasn’t a sea, and not made of glass? I have been born for the first time, and I have been reborn. The logical impossibility entranced her, as she stroked the lifeless cylinder, and thought of the all too lively memories that fluttered in the tempest of her mind. But as she dwelled on birth and rebirth, she found no answers. Standing, she gave a last look at the cylinder on the sand, slowly being surrounded by water as the tide rose, and she felt oddly touched, as if she was staring at a loved one’s corpse, or the result of unfathomable destruction. More frightened than moved by the suddenly arising feeling of sorrow and heart ache, she turned from the cylinder, blinking in confusing as she felt tears streaming from her eyes. As she strode into the forest, leaving the cylindrical canister behind on the sand, tears continued to flow, but were now accompanied by a flow of memories. Her mind clearing, names connected with faces and locations, the reasons for arguments and the meanings of friendly words were found, and the reason for her unwillingness to name love its quixotically given title was discovered. As she blinked in surprise, letting the flow of memories sink into her consciousness, only a single thought filled her mind. Rebirth. And, as she stood, the soft, dewy moss of the jungle floor wetting her bare feet, her mind seized by the emotional upheaval of a life she had forgotten, she realized it was so.
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City The clamor of a thousand people headed in a thousand directions engulfed me as I stepped out of the taxi cab and onto the pavement. Sirens wailed in the distance; car horns blared at each corner, near and far. The sun had long ago set, but the city seemed no less alive at night than it did during the day. It seemed to me as though I was at the crossroads of humanity, as though every person alive was at this very moment passing through the same city as I was. And it was this city that would now be my home, I realized as I walked toward the building where I’d purchased an apartment a few weeks back. I moved slowly, gazing in wonder at the flashing neon in the window of every business on the street, at the blur of the headlights of cars racing past, at the glow of the street lamps casting pools of light and shadow along the road. It was all completely foreign to me, something that I’d seen maybe once or twice before. I’d lived most of my life far from the city – not quite a rural area, but definitely somewhere on the fringes of the suburbs. I’d always enjoyed that particular setting growing up, always assumed that that’s where I’d live when I was on my own. Sometimes, though, life doesn’t work out the way you expected. Sometimes the only work you can find is in deep in the heart of a massive city on the opposite side of the country. And so you take it, especially if you can find an affordable place to live in a decent area of town. It suddenly dawned on me that, without knowing it, I’d ascended two flights of stairs and had been standing at the door to my apartment for several minutes. I dug the key out of my pocket and slipped it into the lock, twisting it open without too much effort. The door swung open, revealing an empty room, completely devoid of contents save for a window on the far wall and a door into another small room on the wall to my right. My furniture had been shipped by land and was supposed to get here tomorrow, but for now all I had was what I’d brought in my luggage. Which was fine with me. I set my suitcase against the wall and dug out my sleeping bag. As I threw it on the floor, a faint glimmer in the corner of the room caught my eye. A few strides led me to its source: a single penny, glowing dully in the dim light of the window. I picked it up and looked it over. Some said pennies brought luck to those who found them. I’d never put much stock in that sort of thing, but this did not change the fact that, as I looked at the coin, a feeling of hope began to swell within my chest.
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Run Thirty seconds. Maybe a bit less. That's about how long I had before I'd have to run. The chute station was crowded, sure, but the Vahki knew who they were looking for. I'd had more than a few run-ins with the law enforcement machines in my years; I knew how quickly their processors could pick someone out.They say you've got two options if the Vahki are after you: surrender or run. Judging by the rapidly growing number of Vahki quickly filling in every conceivable exit, the latter option would likely be impossible. But then again, I'd done a lot of impossible things in my lifetime.Ten seconds now. Nine. Eight. I'd have to move late enough that I could get as close to my target as possible and early enough that they'd be caught off guard. Two seconds. One. Now.From my leisurely walk I broke into a full-on sprint, shoving the Matoran around me aside as I ran. The Vahki sprang to action mere fractions of a second after I made my move, reorganizing themselves, changing their formation based on my path. For a moment they seemed confused, their mechanical minds not understanding what I was doing, knowing only that they had to stop it.They had good reason to be uncertain, as I was running on what must have looked to be a crash course with the wall of a building that faced directly away from the most likely escape route, the chutes. Still, it didn't take the Vahki long to adjust. A pair of the machines moved to intercept my path, one leaving its post at the chutes - which were still guarded by several more, naturally - and the other stepping forward from the alleyway formed by the wall I was running at and the adjoining building. I'd anticipated this, been counting on it, in fact. I continued to run head-on at the pair of Vahki, which no doubt confused them even more - they'd been programmed to deal with simple-minded rahi and common criminals, not with anyone who could actually plan and think for himself. My eyes drifted to their staves. These were Vorzahk, based on their coloration and the shape of their weapons, not to mention that we were in Le-Metru. Rather nasty customers, I knew. One touch from one of those staves and - bam - memory gone. Not a fun experience, or so I'd heard. Fortunately I'd never had the displeasure of experiencing it for myself, and I didn't intend to do so today.I took all this in during the few brief moments I had before I reached the pair of Vahki. As I approached, I slipped a knife from its sheathe and threw it at the machine on the left, aiming for one of its cameras, or "eyes" as I suppose they'd be called if it were a living creature. Even if the weapon missed its mark, it should still prove to distract the machine as I focused on its companion.Said companion stepped forward as I made my throw and tried to give me its whole "surrender or run" deal while waving one of its staves in what was probably supposed to be a threatening manner, but it never finished - I slid forward beneath the weapon it was showing off and wrenched it from the Vahki's hand, springing up behind it and continuing for the wall.I planted the staff in the ground, using it as a pole vault of sorts to gain some extra air as I jumped at the side of the building. The extended reach of my leap proved vital - with the tips of my fingers, I grasped a small electrical pipe and swung sideways, using the momentum of my jump to propel me to the top of the building, putting me in prime position to jump into the chute of my choice. Of course, by now another pair of Vahki had climbed to the roof of the building as well, but I paid them no mind. They lashed out with their staves as I sprinted between them, but I, as always, was faster. A moment later, I was airborne, falling, falling, and suddenly slipping through an irregularity in the chute's electromagnetic field and rocketing away.Honestly, those Onu-Matoran needed to build some better machines.
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Well, I saw that theme, and thought "You know, I'm going to be original, and just do a Vahki chase scene." Turns out I'm one of the few that thought the same, so it's still original, although my original plan only included the Kralhi. Anyways, enjoy. FFFC #4: "Surrender or Run"On the Run Deep beneath the towering skyline of Metru Nui, echoing footsteps followed closely by the clanking sounds of metal ring through the dark labyrinth of display cases and tablets. They were the sounds of a troop of Keerahk pursuing a potential lawbreaker, who was already beginning to gasp for air. Borek ran barely ahead of the robotic enforcers, his footsteps stirring up dust like the ash of his native Ta-Metru. His task had started simply, just retriving an artifact from the Archives, but Vahki have a way of complicating things. Luckily, he had a plan to get rid of them. According to a map he had retrieved from an Onu-Metruan informant, he was now approaching a section called The Fikou's Web, a mess of tunnels so dangerous that not even Vahki would dare enter, or so the plan went. True to form, the Vahki reared up on their hind legs like startled Ussals once he crossed the boundary, their gears clicking as they reverted to their bipedal forms. Borek waved goodbye, and continued into the darkness. ---#--- "SHALL WE GIVE CHASE?" "NO, SECTOR IS MARKED AS 'FORBIDDEN.' WE MUST FIND WHERE HE IS GOING. WE WILL MEET HIM THERE." "PERHAPS WE MAY APPREHEND THE ACCOMPLICE?" "EXCELLENT. REROUTE DESTINATION POINT. GO TO LE-METRU SEA DISTRICT." "REROUTE ACCEPTED." ---#--- Borek had no time to worry about how easy that escape had seemed now. The Zakaz buyer had said to meet him at the Le-Metru Sea District with the artifact, without bothering to tell him much about it. He was pretty sure it was a Kanohi mask, and with a strange design, probably mostly blue. Either way, he had a lot of looking to do, and not much time to do it. Skakdi were notoriously bad at waiting. He finally dared to bring out his firestaff, both to light the way and to mark his path, which he did frequently and without much success. He was still getting lost among all the dusty display cases, having to brush off each one before he finally found it. The mask was large and blue, with four swept-back fins coming together at the brow, and a gaping, round mouth. He could feel power radiating off of it, but had no time to identify it, even if he was a Ta-Matoran. He brandished the firestaff, preparing to burn through the protoglass to retrive the artifact, when a metallic voice spoke from the shadows. "SURRENDER OR RUN." He raised his arms, turning off the firestaff as he did so, not that it would do any good. Vahki had impeccable night vision, and he was only hurting himself. The tunnel began to suddenly fill with light, by which he saw a clawed tail, twin blades, a visored head, and four legs. He suddenly remembered that Vahki could not speak regular Matoran. That meant it wasn't a Vahki. It was a Kralhi, the scrapped prototypes of the Vahki who were banished for being too brutal to their captives. Of which, he was about to become one. With a flash, the image of a pulsating sphere of energy launched before he could duck, and he caught the bubble on his arm, where it began to expand to encase the firestaff, his forearm, shoulder, and then began creeping towards his mask, draining the life out of him. The Ta-Matoran collapsed, fear in his eyes as the energy bubble's light revealed four spidery legs clanking their way towards him. A voice called out "Stop!" Borek looked around frantically for some help, but he couldn't see far enough into the darkness to find his possible rescuer. Then, his eyes fell on a Pakari coming out from the darkness by the Krahli."Mavrah? I thought you were dead! Get me out of here! I didn't do anything wrong!" The Onu-Matoran just laughed and shook his head. "You Matoran are all the same. Selfish. Uncaring. Unappreciative. Why should I be any different? Besides, I can't let you find me. You'd bring the Vahki down in an instant to destroy all of my work!" "No! It's not like that! Come on, Mavrah, you're not like that! What happened to Unity? Duty? Destiny? It is your duty to help me?" "Why should I? After all, this is my Kralhi." "Your what?" "They're my kindred spirits. Both of us were exiled for being too competent in our work. And I can't let you change that." He snapped his fingers, and the enforcer began it's slow crawl towards the trapped and drained Matoran. A slash of blades on armor could be heard, echoing through the tunnels, closely followed by a quick scream. ---#--- "WHERE IS THE MATORAN?" "I HAVE LOST HIS SIGNAL. HE DOES NOT APPEAR TO BE COMING HERE." "WE CANNOT BE WRONG." "IT IS OF NO CONSEQUENCE IF THE MATORAN GOT AWAY. HE DIDN'T GET WHAT HE WAS LOOKING FOR. THE MASK IS SAFE, AND TURAGA DUME WILL BE PLEASED. WE HAVE FOUND THE BUYER, LET THAT BE ENOUGH." "VERY WELL. TURAGA DUME CALLS US TO REPORT. WE HAVE MUCH TO TELL HIM..." -----#----- So, probably not the best I've ever written, but at least I got it in. Hope you enjoyed!EDIT: By the way, if you haven't already, please check out my previous Short Story, A Chronicle, for the Lesovikk's Hiatus contest.
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The Murder It was still dark out in the forest of Bora Gotas. A forest filed with many tree animals that usually come out at night. Suddenly two Matoran ran through the forest, ending the silence that filled the air. Leaves ruffled and the grass churned, the owls hooted and wolves howled. This is the story of death, of a horrendous murder that occurred a year before the world fell apart. A Matoran of Fire and a Matoran of Air pant, their heavy breathing can be heard through the dead silence of the forest. “I think we lost them.” Said the Fire Matoran. “We could have gotten killed out there.” Protested the Le-Matoran. These two Matoran have escaped the ambush on a caravan that was heading through a path not too far from the forest. The Le-Matoran is part of the Vanguard class, a class of soldiers that specialize in disk launcher attacks. The Ta-Matoran is just a driver, he was saved by the Le-Matoran from being killed by a Berserker Bot that was about to shoot him. The Matoran caught their breath and continued heading north, towards a village that had an outpost. “Do you think they’ll catch us?” The Ta-Matoran asked. “If they did, I’ll blow their heads off.” Little did they know that a drone was watching them. A few minutes later, they arrived at the village. The villagers let them in, seeing that they are part of the Solis Magna Defense Force. “Here we at outpost Omega 10 Daorn, now let’s go talk the general in this outpost.” Daorn is the Ta-Matoran. He wears an orange Ruru, and has special plating in his armor that can withstand large blasts. He used to be like all Ta-Matoran, but ever since the war he had to join seeing that his village was murdered by an army of robots. “Leowa, do you think I’ll become a soldier like you?” Asks Daorn. “It just takes courage to be one, and stay valiant till death.” Leowa is the Le-Matoran. He became a Vanguard after he took a fallen soldier’s disk launcher, and fired it at the Giant Robot. He wears a teal colored Miru, with burnt black staining on it, due to a faulty disk that went off in his disk launcher. The duo enter the outpost and speak to the general. “General, we’ve come to give you our report.” Leowa says to the general. “What is the situation soldier? Has the caravan made it to its destination?” “No sir, Daorn and I were the only ones that made it out alive.” The general walks up to Daorn. He hands him a rifle and salutes him. “Daorn, for your bravery in battle, I hereby make you an honorary soldier of the Solis Magna Defense Force.” The general says, saluting him. Just as he hands him his new position, bomb blasts go off. The village comes on fire, people are scrambling for cover. Berserkers fire away at any straggler running away in fear. “It’s an all-out attack; we need to drive them out of here.” Soldiers are seen firing away with their machine guns and disk launchers. Berserkers go down one by one, bullet holes penetrating its armor. Leowa heads in to help out the effort, but then a Giant appears; armed with an ion cannon that will kill everyone with just a few blasts. It charges up its cannon, electricity can be seen surging through its blades. “Look out he’s about to fire.” Yelled a vanguard soldier. They fired as fast as they could, but it would take those hits like nothing. It then pointed its cannon arm at the soldiers and, phew, phew. It fired two shots, obliterating the troops that were caught in that blast. Some were running, but could not run fast as the second blast killed them. One of them was Leowa, he was killed in the second blast. His body armor scattered, tissue pieces littered the floor, and mask lying on the ground. Daorn could not stand seeing his friend that he knew, being killed right before his eyes. He was incased in fear, the world was going slow as he stood there. The general was yelling at him to help out in the fight, but he did not hear. It was only until he saw the general flying in the air by the impact of a blast from a Berserker. He then looked at the berserker; it laughed at him as it approached slowly, reloading its cannon for another shot. But Daorn was tired of having fear, tired of this murder that was happening in front of him and him not helping those that are wounded or even those trying to push them out. He aimed his rifle directly at its eye, making sure not to miss this shot. “This one’s for the general.” POW, he fired the shot and the bullet went straight through its eye and exited by the back, sending metal and sparks to fly. The berserker fell down; systems shutting down. The Giant saw him and prepared to annihilate him, but he saw its move and fired his entire magazine into its head. “That on was for Leowa!” He yelled as the giant fell down. He reloaded and went on to destroy fifteen more bots, but there was too many. They closed in on him and fired away, leaving almost no trace of him at all. All that was left was the bottom piece of his Ruru. To this day this battle came to be known as The Murder on Outpost 10. One of the most gruesome battles in the SMDF history. (note they did not surrender, but they did run at first.)
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Life Ever since we crashed on the Planet Earth, we had to adjust to human lifestyles. We assume human disguises via a special prototype camo system that was infused in us when we crashed. The process is too complicated to explain in words, but the exodus of an entire species is at stake. Human military forces seek to enslave us for experiments. No one knows what happens, for no one ever comes back alive. It is the afternoon in New York City, an industrious city where almost forty percent of the population that came aboard the Nexus 7 reside. Many of them are disguised as shop keepers or business men. Two Matoran, Matroe and Falmo, enter an alley running. They transform into their normal statue figure of Matoran. Matroe is a Matoran of ice with a noble Kanohi Komau, and Falmo is a Matoran of Earth with a Kanohi Pakari. They are on the run from militants whose only purpose is to kill them. “I think we lost them.” Said Matroe, trying to catch his breath. Then the shouts of the armed militants can be heard. Scared for their lives, they transform back to their human disguises. “I told you to stay in your human form, but no. You just had to transform back to your normal form.” Falmo says in protest. “Shut up, or we’ll get caught.” The sounds of boots and clanking metal can be heard, closer as they proceed to find their prey. Then we hear the sirens of police cars. They are in pursuit of a pair of robbers who robbed a jewelry store at this time. “Stop police!” An officer shouts at one of the crooks. The militants break away, leaving their pursuit for them. Feeling that they are still not safe, they stay in their forms. Their human forms are African-American males; Matroe’s having a bulky black winter coat and blue jeans, and Falmo’s being a blue hoodie and blue jeans. Ironically, one of the robbers is wearing the same clothes as Matroe. They crooks and officers split up, still in pursuit. Matroe and Falmo stay near a stage backdoor, hiding in the shadow of the stair case. One of the officers enters his moves to dispatch; he enters a narrow alley and takes cover behind a wall. He looks around the corner to see the offender. A shot is fired and grazes a pole next to the wall. “Shots fired! Shots fired! The chase has escalated to a 10-13!” The officer runs around the corner chasing him into the alley on the right. Unknown to Matroe and Falmo, the offender runs into them and exits through the backdoor. “What’s his problem?” Asks Falmo, looking at the door. Matroe shrugs his shoulders. “Look I’m telling you that this is nothing. We will get out of this soon.” The officer looks down the alley and sees Matroe; mistaking him for the crook he was chasing. “NYPD, put your hands in the air!” Just as Matroe hears the officers voice, he pulls out something from his jacket pocket. Just as he pulls out the object, he turns around to face the officer. A shot his fired directly at his heart. Encased in fear, Falmo stands still in complete shock. The officer comes to see Matroe’s body, seeing no gun in his hand. He then looks at Falmo in despair, and guilt. The other officer arrives. His name is detective Mack Taylor, who looks at the body, then at Falmo. Later in the week, they find the true perpetrators of the crime that was committed. Falmo, tells to the press in his Matoran form, the truth of what really happened. His sorrow of his fallen friend, is all that fills him as he walks away from the percent. “As police officers in this big complicated city we see so much bad. So many souls filled with hatred and violence, and it’s our job to look for them, chase after them and confront them. Over time it can become all that we see. As with all evil some goodwill always can come from it. It can bring us together with some of the most dedicated, honorable, kind hearted people we can ever hope to meet. It can fill hearts, with love so strong that it will endure forever, and create unbreakable friendships that will last, even in the face of life’s most difficult challenges. Sometimes the good comes when we most need it and least expect it. If we are lucky enough to notice upon it, set our eyes upon it, and appreciate it, it can almost make us forget all of the bad. Today is life the only life for sure of; make the most of today. Words of wisdom, a slice of goodness passed on by an innocent soul whose life was cut short by an arid bullet. These are words that will always stay with me, words that are about to change the course of my life forever.” -Mack Taylor
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Winter Years By Peach 00 The enchanting winter background was a sight of wonder for the small town. The crisp and clear silvery silhouette of the moon shone beautifully over the town square, while every shimmering star was like a diamond glistening against the velvety, blackness of the boundless horizon. There was a woman dressed in black boots, denim jeans, a grey pom-pom hat and a black wool raincoat. She had twinkling brown eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, and she was walking in the inches of pure white snow in the plaza area of her hometown. The town, Tahlonega, would rarely ever get snow this time of year – it was also a rare amount of snow, specifically ten inches. This was infrequent in the small southern community, and a blessing to each citizen, as they had not received such a large amount since almost thirteen years ago, around the time of Christmas. Had it really been thirteen years ago? She smiled for a moment. Tomorrow was Christmas, perhaps her last Christmas in the little town of Tahlonega, as next year she would probably be moving to Florida. She would never see snow for quite a long time, as the comfortable temperatures of winter in Florida didn’t even dip anywhere near the thirties the majority of the time. Katie Atkins was walking around the town square alone and she was thoroughly enjoying the decorations. Every where her eyes wandered, the wonder of Christmas time seemed to overwhelm them. How Katie would miss the beauty of the town square during the holidays…all the tiny little shops, the heavenly aroma of fudge wafting from the bakery, the pizzeria near the college, and the little odds and ends shop that sold all sorts of different things. This was naturally her favorite – she could buy anything in there, always finding something that would interest her intensely. The bare trees near every sidewalk were decorated with beautiful golden glowing lights intertwined between every silver branch. There was a wreath decorated with red ribbons on every door in the square, and a “Merry Christmas” sign hung just below each wreath. The white snow covered the sidewalks as it fell from the skies in little powdery flakes to form fine snow crystals on the ground. They were like solid teardrops falling from the grey night clouds…they made her sorrowful and reminiscent of times previous when the elegant snowflakes had fallen from the dreary horizon. She recalled all those times when she had taken the snow for granted…before it was a simple production of the weather. She felt the same of the little town of Tahlonega, with its sometimes homely but endearing little shops and cottages. She then thought of Christmas…all those wonderful Christmases at her house were taken for granted. Now she realized they were the most joyous experiences of her life, although she did not consider them that way when they occurred…she regretted not savoring them a little bit more at that time. As she strode leisurely around the small plaza, she saw the extravagantly ornamented and large Christmas tree standing in the town center, adorned with dozens of scarlet ribbons and inexpensive reflective ruby red and emerald green ornaments. She grinned ear to ear at the sight of it. It was such a beautiful celebration of the holiday to her. She looked at the time. It was midnight – it was now officially Christmas. She knew she had better get home, and right before she left, she took out her cellular phone, snapping a picture of the tree as she was about to leave the town center. She viewed the photograph and a smile formed on her lips. Katie was running in the splendorous downfall of snow, cherishing the cold flakes falling on her face, and when she finally reached her Honda Fit, she noticed something in the window of a shop. It was a gold-chained necklace, and the ornament on the necklace was an oval garnet, with small opal jewels surrounding it. She noticed the shop was just about to close, and she rushed towards the shop as she saw the owner about to leave. The woman was rather plump, with raven black hair and a large black overcoat and gloves. She looked about fifty years old, and was just about to lock the shop with her keys. Katie hurried over to her quickly and tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me, ma’am?” Katie asked hastily. “What is it, miss?” the woman replied irritably. “That necklace in the window…how much is it?” she questioned. “It is thirty dollars,” she answered icily. “But I am sorry, we’re closed.” “No, no, please,” she pleaded with her. “It is very important that I get this necklace. You see, this is my last time here in Tahlonega, and I would really like it as a reminder –” “I am sorry, we’re closed,” the woman retorted. “Please, ma’am!” Katie begged. “I will pay you fifty dollars for it instead!” The woman paused for a moment and sighed. “Alright,” she relented. “But I’ll only take cash for it now. Do you have the money?” “Yes, yes, I do –” Katie answered, digging into her pocketbook for her wallet. She looked to find only twenty five dollars, and her heart stopped. “I’m sorry…I only have twenty five dollars.” “That’s fine, miss,” the woman replied with a hint of smile. “That will be enough. Merry Christmas.” Katie smiled. “Merry Christmas, ma’am.” She handed her the money, and the woman opened the store back up and put the necklace in Katie’s hands. She locked the store and headed towards her car down the street, and Katie grinned. As she opened her car and seated herself in it, she glanced at the beautiful pendent she was beholding, and smiled at the generosity of the woman. Never would she forget her holiday spirit, or the winter years that went with it. ~:~ This is my first FFFC, and I'm hoping it will place high despite it being a last minute entry. Enjoy. ^^
