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long live ambage you'll be in our hearts 4ever
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As of this morning, I finished my NaNoWriMo novel, The Mad Voyage of Prince Malock, clocking in at 92,245 words, as you can conveniently see in the content block to the right. So I will not be updating the content block any more this month, although I will keep it up until December 1st because of reasons. I expected to hit 100k, but 92k is fine, too. I'm just on a high right now, feeling really happy about myself. This is the first original novel I've written that I feel I can make into something publishable, although as per the usual course I will put it aside for a few months while I work on some other projects. It will definitely need to be rewritten and edited and I need to do some research in some areas as well as flesh out the world a bit more, but I'm so excited for it, which is definitely a good sign. I'm just stunned that I not only hit 50k before the end of the month, but I also finished the novel itself. It's not unusual for me to hit 50k by Thanksgiving, but in past NaNos I've finished the novel itself in December. It was like the novel just came rushing out of my fingers and it was all I could do to keep up with it this time. So what are my plans for the rest of the month? Well, I do have an original short story I need to write for the Ambage website's "Selected Writings" page, so I will probably be working on that. Not to mention In the End's third draft is not yet complete. So I will probably spend the rest of the year on that short story and In the End, unless something else comes up in the meantime that I desperately want to work on instead. That's all for now, so see ya, -TNTOS-
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I awoke to the rising sun shining into my hut. I sat up, excited for the day ahead. Hopping out of bed I quickly checked in the mirror to be sure my mask was straight and looked over my metallic parts and joints for scrapes or scuffs before zipping toward the door. I grabbed my pack, which was waiting for me there, and my bamboo pole and throwing disk, just as the usual precautionary defenses. I strolled eagerly toward the village gate of Ta-Koro. It was very early and hardly anyone was up, but the guard questioned me and my business before letting me out. I crossed the bridge and soon reached the outer edge of the volcano, where I continued on at a brisk trot, heading inland. I made way through the sunlit forest and admired the beautiful trees and scenery. Soon I reached my destination: A small river, one that ran through the middle of the forest on its way to the sea. I set my pack on the ground and heaved a contented sigh. I found a nice spot to sit beside the river, and set down my bamboo pole and throwing disk there. Then I retrieved my fishing pole and line from the pack, grabbing some bait as well. The critters won't know what hit them. I tossed a determined and confident expression at the river. I wound up my line, attached the bait, and swung the line into the river. Then I sat back to wait. And wait. And wait. Ah, the joy of the hunt. Matoran versus wild, I thought as I began to nod off. My pole was wedged firmly between a stone and my leg, my fingers still coiled around it. After a fine little nap, I awoke feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. Soon I also felt unsuccessful. No tugs on the pole had awaken me, but I drew in the line to be sure. Nothing. The bait was still there. By now it was all soggy, though, so I replaced it before tossing in the line again. Now I sat, wide awake, pole grasped with both hands, and waited eagerly for my first bite. I waited patiently. And waited. And waited. Nothing. I leaned forward and looked into the water, but try as I might I couldn't even catch the glimmer of scales nor a splash of any kind. I sat back. They just aren't out and about today, I suppose. I reeled in the line and cast it again. The minutes passed. There, a ripple! I leaned forward eagerly, only to see a small nut floating in the river. Evidently it had fallen from a tree. I sat back in disappointment. Waiting, and more waiting. Well, that's what these sorts of days are for, right? The minutes stretched into hours, and soon it was mid-afternoon. I sighed. Well, that's a fine day, then. Time to go home, I guess. But just as I was about to reel in the line, I thought I felt a tug. It was so faint, and lasted so short a time, that I thought I must have imagined it. But there it came again, and then again with more force. I slowly reeled in my line, and the force of the tug grew. A grin crossed my mask. This one's putting up a fight! The intensity of the pull grew still more, and soon it was a full-on battle between me and my quarry. I patiently worked the line, struggling to bring it in but taking care not to break it. The minutes stretched on, and I felt that the day hadn't been such a waste, after all. Oh, the exhileration and excitement of the hunt! Slowly, inch by painstaking inch, I dragged the line closer to shore. Finally the creature began to weaken, and I reeled him in with more speed. Finally, to my incredible gratification and delight, I just about had him. With a final great big yank on the line, something large erupted from the water and flew into the air! A fish! A beautiful, scaly fish that was bigger than my head! I reveled in the beauty of it as it sailed through the air, glistening water droplets flying alongside it. What a beautiful sight, and what a beautiful dinner it would make. What happened next still baffles me. Even looking back on it now it causes me to shake my head in wonder. A bird came along, a big raptor with wide wings and sharp claws. It swooped down out of nowhere and grabbed the fish, my fish, right out of the air. My shock then was no small thing. I stood there dumb for several moments before I regained my composure enough to shake my fist and yell at the bird, who passed on without even acknowledging my presence. Nor did I give up. That fish was mine by right, and I would have it back! I instantly grabbed my throwing disk and ran after the bird. I had a hard time following him through the forest, and several times I feared I'd lost him, but finally I tracked him to a sizeable spire of rock at the edge of the forest. I watched, frustrated, as he set the fish down on the very top of the spire. I may be too late. . . But all of a sudden he took to the air again, flying out over the forest again. What caused him to leave I would never know, but I didn't stop to wonder. I began to climb the spire, which wasn't too terribly steep. A few perilous slips and much physical exertion later, I reached the top. Panting, I heaved myself up the last foot and beheld my beautiful fish, looking just as wonderful as ever, flopping limply on the rock. Then two things happened that made me stop dead: First I heard growling, then right in front of me I saw the angry face of an Ash Bear. My heart-light skipped a flash, and we stared across at each other. The bear's claws clung perilously to the stone. But this was still my fish, and neither bird of prey nor Ash Bear would have it from me! He growled again and heaved himself still higher up. In that instant I made my move, and with the flash of an arm the fish was in my grasp. In the next instant I turned and the bear leaped towards me. I was too slow, but the bear was clumsy and he crashed headlong into me. Before either of us knew what was happening we were tumbling down the side of the spire, and as we tumbled the fish flew from my grasp. The bear eagerly snapped at it with his jaws, but from his back I was able to grab it before he could get his teeth into it. Then with a kick to the stomach he loosened my grip again. This continued all along our bumpy ride down the spire, each of us struggling vainly not only to slow our fall, but first and foremost, to get that fish! Finally we landed in a heap at the bottom, he on top of me. There, on the ground in front of us, sat the fish. In an instant we were racing for it. Before either of us could grab it, though, another Ash Bear suddenly appeared from the foliage and grasped it in his jaws. With a growl that sounded to me like a laugh, he ran back into the forest, but the first Ash Bear and I were hard on his heels. Soon we reached a small clearing, where the fish-stealing bear was tackled to the ground by the larger bear. The fish flew from his mouth and into the air, where I leaped and grabbed it before landing and dashing off into the forest. Only, now I had two ash bears after me. Oh, Taku, how do you get yourself into these things. . . ? I sought the only way of escape that I could see, and leaped for a low-hanging branch. But I was too late, the bears were upon me. The leader crashed into both me and the tree just as I grasped the branch, which snapped off under the bear's weight. Upon hitting the ground I realized with a start that the ground here began to decline, and I tumbled head over heels down the hillside. The bears tumbled after me. Again the fish slipped from my grasp and a bear snapped at it, only to be shoved aside by the other bear, who swiped at it with a paw. He hit it but couldn't grasp it, instead sending it high into the air. I then lost sight of it and began to wonder if I cared anymore. The world refused to stop spinning, no matter how many times I asked. . . The bullying trees and rocks were no help, either, who seemed to take delight in beating on me. Finally, though, the three of us came to a stop at the edge of another clearing. In that moment my only thought was escape, but just then we all caught sight of the fish again as it came sailing down out of the air and landed in the middle of the clearing. It flopped helplessly. Suddenly many tooth-lined maws and sniffing noses stuck out of the surrounding foliage. In an instant, no less than twelve more ash bears were madly converging on the fish. My own two friends included. In their crazed charge they shoved me along, and I found myself unable to escape. The circle of bears closed in, and the first ash bear I had met that day dragged me screaming into the mix. Finally I fell to the side just as a larger bear crashed into mine, then I was forced to roll aside as two giant paws slammed into the ground. Another bear kicked me with its hind leg, and I found myself in the middle of a knot of bears, like the eye of a hurricane. To my incredible wonderment, the fish suddenly plopped out of the sky and into my lap. I laughed a giddy laugh of amazement. But then dozens of furious eyes converged on me, and with a terrible cry of fear I flung the fish from my person. Rolling away desperately, I sought to escape the claws, limbs, and bodies that entangled me. How long this continued I am not now certain, but finally I found myself flying through the air, after which I landed on the back of one of the beasts. As he turned to snarl at me, I recognized the first bear I had met that day, and I thought I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes as well. And then wouldn't you know it? I again saw that dratted fish flying through the air, and instinctively, though I can't imagine why I did it, my arms flashed out and grasped it. The bear and I now stood on the edge of the clearing, while the bears behind us were still fighting tooth and claw. After his initial glance at me he turned his attention to the woods and we were soon flying along between the trees. It took the other bears a few moments, but soon they were after us, their large bodies crashing a terrible swath through the undergrowth. On we ran, until suddenly we crashed headlong into something big, metal, and hard. The something growled in response. My steed inched back in fear as a great Muaka cat heaved his giant body and turned to see who had disturbed his afternoon nap. As he turned his head was opposite us, and he caught sight of our pursuers before us. With a roar of rage he charged them and sent them scurrying away in fear. My own bear lost no time in putting as much distance as possible between him and the other Rahi. On and on he ran, before finally coming to a stop beside the very river from which the fish had come. He panted and stood very still. For some reason I felt less afraid in that moment. I slipped quietly from his side and flopped into a sitting position, leaning against him and dropping the fish to the ground. Once my breath had returned, I laughed. I laughed loudly and heartily, amazed by what had happened. And to think we finally came out of it with the fish! It's a magical world, I realized. Somehow I was beginning to feel a little kinship toward this bear. In response to my laughing, he turned and I could have sworn that he began to laugh, too. We laughed for several moments in wonderment at our marvelous escapade before returning our attention to the helplessly flopping fish. Our eyes rested upon it just in time to see it flop back into the river. No! We both ran forward, but it was too late. The fish was gone. I couldn't believe it! After all that, the fish had finally escaped our grasp, right back into its own home. When suddenly with a flash of wings, a great bird of prey, the same one as before, I could have sworn, swooped out the sky and dove into the river. I watched in amazement as the strong claws dragged the great big fish right back out of the water. With a swoop of his great paw the bear felled the bird, who escaped with his life but lost the fish. The fish sat between us. I stared it. The bear stared at it. Then I took out a knife and set the tip against the fish. After a glance at the bear, I proceeded to cut the fish in half. Well, not quite half, the bear was more than twice my size, after all. He took his chunk and gulped it down in several large bites. I held my half and watched him as he ate. Once finished, he stared calmly at me for a few moments. Then with a farewell chuff, he turned and went off into the forest. After several more long moments I realized with a start that the woods could still be swarming with angry ash bears. I quickly retrieved my pack and gear, save the throwing disk which still lay at the foot of the spire, stored my share of the fish in the pack and made my way for Ta-Koro. Yes, it was quite a day.
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It's a book by Patrick Ness, inspired by an idea from Siobhan Dowd. I picked up this book because many Ambagers were raving about it. I'll be succinct: it's a beautiful book. The characters are immediately engrossing, and the atmosphere of the book immediately sucks you in, aided in no small part by Jim Kay's illustrations, which are nothing short of hauntingly brilliant. It's about a boy named Conor, who is visited shortly after midnight by a monster. Not the monster from his nightmare, the one he's had nearly every night since his mother started her treatments. This monster is different; it's something ancient and wild, and it wants the most dangerous thing of all from Conor: it wants the truth. The book is haunting, lonely, sad, painful, and hopeful. I was immediately drawn into its world, and the ending came far too soon, but it felt right. It's very unique -I've never read another book like it- and it's undoubtedly a masterpiece. This short review is also short on details, but that's partly because my emotions took too much of a beating for me to able to type anything particularly profound. I would encourage anyone and everyone to read this book.
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Hi guys, this is what I wrote for yesterday's write-off. The subject was bells. Lewa was strolling through the jungle one day when he heard a new sound. It was unlike any other that he had heard before; it was too high to be a drum, but to metallic to be a flute. He cut down some underbrush and found Tamaru expressing his love for music with a very strange piece of metal. “What happy-fun are we having here?” Lewa asked. “Oh, nothing really.” Tamaru replied. “Just thought what new clang-noise a funny-shape piece of metal would make.” “It sounds nice.” Lewa said. “May I play-try?” He asked. “Yes, but it was hard to make. Please be careful.” Tamaru said as he handed the new instrument to Lewa. Lewa tapped it lightly with his finger. “It made no sound-noise.” Lewa said. “Did I break it?” He asked in dismay. “No, you swing it like this.” Tamaru said as he brought the piece of metal up and flicked his wrist. The bell responded by making a melodious sound. “That’s a pretty noise-sound.” Lewa said. “May I try again?” He asked. “Sure.” tamaru said as he handed the bell to Lewa. Lewa then flicked his wrist the same way that Tamaru did, only he wasn’t holding on tight enough. “The bell flew out of Lewa’s hands and hit a very scared Tamaru. Tamaru then flopped onto the ground unconscious. “Well, have happy-fun with your new noisemaker!” Lewa said as he hurried away. Hopefully Tamaru wouldn’t remember what happened.
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Ekelest dropped his shovel and collapsed to his knees, his face covered in dirt and his hands covered in splinters. He coughed so hard than he could not feel any mucus in his throat. "Help me," he said. Tigrina helped him up. He leaned against her shoulder. They were inmuns. They were not glorified like others for their nobility, for their age, for their sincerity, for their heart, for their history, for their humility, for their bravery, or for their heroics. In fact, the inmuns were a people reknowned for their fun and their partying nature. Tonight was by far not a party night. "No, help drag me away," said Ekelest, exhausted. "We need to get away right now!" "What? It's dead!" said Tigrina. "That isn't just any 'it'. That thing is an 'it'," said Ekelest. "Come on, you're just any other person in the middle of all this. You're just a bystander who got caught up in it all. We're not safe. We have to go." Tigrina began dragging Ekelest along. "But it's dead," she whispered to herself, bewildered and afraid. As best he could, Ekelest got back to his feet, wincing at the pain. At least he was catching his breath back. He couldn't run away from the grave yet, only walk as fast he could. His adrenalin had run dry. "You weren't around during any of the wars we had with the nuadine," said Ekelest. "I'm a veteren. I knew some great people, and I knew of some even greater people. Someone once beheaded one of them and thought it was dead, and then it just came back and hunted down him and his friends a year later. My friends died so that people like you didn't have to fear these feroceous aliens, now run! We need to get more people. We need to make sure that when it digs its way back up, there are enough local law enforcement around to kill it for good." "But - " "Just do it!" shouted Ekelest. He slapped her wrist and pushed her, and she began running. Ekelest could not catch up with her. He ran as far as he could, and then he hid behind a tree. He looked at what was left in his pistols. he hated that his inmun arms were too weak to hold a Shock Grade 2.0 Rifle. Those things were specifically made for these circumstances. As it happened, he had these laser pistols, and he didn't have much left, so he had to make every shot cont. He looked around the tree and located where he had dug the grave. The loose soil was beginning to vibrate like a diaphragm. Something was trying to push its way up. His heart quivered. He licked the blood off his teeth and ran a few trees farther down. He heard the muffled explosion of the nuadine breaking free. He closed his eyes shut and grimaced. He could already feel the pain. He thought of all his friends. At least this was the definitive way to die, and they would be proud of him. Ekelest turned around the tree. There was nothing there, and an empty hole was in the ground. He swore he could hear the nuadine lumping away. It was retreating? On the other hand, it had been beaten half to death. Maybe he actually had the upper hand. Ekelest took a bet, and ran in the direction of the sounds. The hunt was on. 24601
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[12:12:29 AM] Andrew P: Hey any ideas for a bionicle flash fiction contest? [12:15:28 AM] Kakaru: okay uh [12:15:44 AM] Kakaru: "Broken Mask" [12:16:46 AM] Kakaru: "The Village" [12:17:33 AM] Kakaru: "A Canister Ashore" [12:19:08 AM] Kakaru: "The Great Mine" [12:19:47 AM] Kakaru: "City of Carvers" [12:20:10 AM] Kakaru: "Lightstone" [12:20:28 AM] Kakaru: "Archivist" [12:20:58 AM] Kakaru: "The Seven Warlords" [12:21:06 AM] Kakaru: "Tren Krom Break" [12:22:04 AM] Kakaru: "A Dark Hunt" [12:22:31 AM] Kakaru: "Bohrok-Kal" [12:23:15 AM] Kakaru: "Antidermis" [12:24:10 AM] Kakaru: "As the Mask Fell" [12:24:31 AM] Kakaru: "The Makuta's Blindness" [12:25:29 AM] Kakaru: "A New Leader" [12:25:54 AM] Kakaru: "The Order" [12:26:13 AM] Kakaru: "Death of a God" [12:26:47 AM] Kakaru: "The Morbuzakh" [12:27:31 AM] Kakaru: "Six Stones" [12:27:45 AM] Kakaru: "The Telescope by the Sea" [12:28:03 AM] Kakaru: "Impostors" [12:28:15 AM] Kakaru: "Titans" [12:28:46 AM] Kakaru: "As Time is Lost" [12:28:56 AM] Kakaru: "The Great Barrier" [12:29:29 AM] Kakaru: "The Rahi in the Snow" [12:29:35 AM] Kakaru: "Hivemind" [12:29:53 AM] Kakaru: "Surrender or Run" [12:30:40 AM] Kakaru: "The Great Temple" [12:31:37 AM] Kakaru: "The Honour of a Makuta" [12:31:53 AM] Kakaru: "Camaraderie" [12:32:39 AM] Kakaru: "Now Only Five" [12:33:08 AM] Kakaru: "Transformation" [12:33:26 AM] Kakaru: "Power Relinquished" [12:33:54 AM] Kakaru: "The Rahkshi" [12:34:07 AM] Kakaru: "Only Last Year" [12:35:10 AM] Kakaru: "Wake One, You Wake Them All" [12:35:59 AM] Kakaru: "The Bay" [12:37:31 AM] Kakaru: "Canyon of Unending Whispers" [12:37:40 AM] Kakaru: "The Coliseum" [12:37:58 AM] Kakaru: "Pakari" [12:39:37 AM] Kakaru: "Where Wisdom and Valour Fail" [12:39:54 AM] Kakaru: "The Queens" [12:40:14 AM] Kakaru: "Who You Once Were" [12:40:32 AM] Kakaru: "Chains of Karzahnii" [12:41:00 AM] Kakaru: "For Freedom We Rise" [12:41:29 AM] Kakaru: "Where Rocks Scream" [12:41:44 AM] Kakaru: "Awakening" [12:41:52 AM] Kakaru: "And in the End" [12:42:15 AM] Kakaru: "Once Reaching for the Sun" [12:42:35 AM] Kakaru: okay out of ideas [12:43:36 AM] Kakaru: pick -one-
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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. ^^
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I know this write-off happened weeks ago, but hey, I decided I liked this enough (and like it as it is and as short as it is) to see what others think. There is two changes between this and the original 15 minute spurt of typing. I added the "-" in "stone-workers" and changed "losing" to "risking" in sentence 6. Enjoy. ------------------ Throne The throne was ugly. Flat slabs of stone that had been laid close to each other, joined by whatever device the stone-workers had implemented. Grey, rough, unpolished stone cut at right angles with no curves to ease your body into. The guard carefully watched at the townspeople lifted the throne with ropes onto a wooden stage, also rough and unstained and (in some areas) with bark still attached to the planks. The whole thing was heavy with the scent of pine. You probably couldn't walk across it barefoot without risking a toe or two from infection by splinter. The throne was placed in the middle of the dais on a large rock that extended beneath the platform and into the ground. The ropes were yanked from underneath just as the procession neared the town square. “Hail the king!” someone cried, and everyone fell silent. Before their eyes a middle aged man, ragged and limping, was herded into the square by a group of guardsmen. He stumbled, hobbled, and walked dazedly, but as soon as “Hail” had been cried he stood straight up, startled, began to walk towards the platform. He reached the base of the steps up, and hesitated. A guard lashed out with a gauntleted fist and knocked the man down, kicking him until he scrambled up giving small sounds of pain as he tried to move gently across the wood to sit in the stone throne. “Hail the man that would be king!” the head of the guard cried, taking a brand from one of his fellows and thrusting it beneath the platform. Within minutes the structure was licked from side to side by flames, and the man in the middle could be seen to be huddled on the throne, sweating profusely. Heavy with resin, the structure burned remarkably fast until all that remained was the scorched rock in the middle, the withered man whimpering from burns, hunger, and thirst. “Hail, the man who is king! May the reign of the Throne of Fire be long!” The head guard called, dismissing the crowd to go silently home as their king was lowered from the ugly throne.
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Fat and GreasyThe fat, greasy man shifted his weight on the couch, which trembled ominously underneath him. The man licked his hand and used it to slick his hair back as he grabbed a shaker, unscrewed the tap, and tossed the whole thing of salt back. His shrimp of a son with his tidy blonde hair and nervous gray eyes darting all over the room stood in front of him, holding a piece of paper in his hand.“What is this, Dad?” the son asked.“That is a serious short story, son.” the man said, letting out a belch and shutting his eyes tight, fumbling for the can of pop sitting on the food tray in front of him.“I mean what you’re eating.”“Oh... it is salt, my lad. Do not ever try it.”“Why shouldn’t I?”"Don’t be so insolent - it tastes bad, it feels bad, it makes you fat like me, and then it kills you, son. Never even think about those serious short stories."“But Dad, I thought we were talking about salt.”“Salt, serious stories, what’s the difference?” the man said, shrugging his shoulders. His son cringed as his father’s fatty chin wobbled and flopped along with the movement.“How does a serious story do that, father?” the son asked timidly.“It is like how I first tossed back the salt, lad. It hooks you and never encourages you to get up and walk away to do something with your life.” the father told him, letting out another belch before patting his protruding belly with extreme difficulty. “Look at me now. What good did those serious stories ever do me?”“I thought it was the salt.”“No son, it was the stories. I sat there hunched over the computer once upon a time before I was too fat to type, reading and writing those serious stories. I never got up – not even to sleep.” the man tried to rub his eye, but his arm was too fat and he stopped trying after three attempts. “Son, if you ever read or write anything, I want you to take the pepper.”“What do you mean, take the pepper?”“Eat the pepper, son. The pepper is spicy and it makes you dance around praying that you will recover and be able to taste again. It forces you to exercise! Now, the pepper of stories is a good comic.”“A comic? Like a comic book?”“Or a text based comedy, it doesn’t matter. Both force you to get up, run around, and stay in shape. With a comedy, the running around is your nonstop laughter.”“I’ve heard laughter is very healthy, father.”“That’s what I’m saying, son. Now be a good boy and get me another serious story and some more salt. I need to continue being a slob.”“Maybe I could read you a comedy tomorrow, father.”The father grunted and his chin wobbled some more.“You can feel free to do so, son. It’ll take a miracle for a totally fat slob like me to get off the couch again.”The son nodded swiftly and turned, exiting the room as fast as possible. He relished the smell of the fresh air, without the toxic fumes of sweat, salt, and books rotting in the aforementioned sweat that pervaded throughout the room his father lived in. With any luck this next story would finally get rid of his father, and he could move on at last to his own dreams and desires.“Hmm... this one should do the trick.” the son muttered as he reached the bookshelf. “Hm… The Casual Vacancy. This book is bloody serious... I’m sure it’ll do father right in this time! And then once that’s done... I’ve heard the movies are pretty easy to get into.”The End I wrote this back in... November, I believe, as a part of the Ambage 15 minute write-off theme "salt shaker". The short length is both due to the time limit and due to the fact that it always takes me a few minutes to get an idea going in my head when I participate in these. But I don't think I really need to excuse the length anyway. This is a story where I really don't care whether you like it or not. It's also not ment to insinuate that short stories are bad, or that comedies are necessarily better than serious works of literature in any sort of way. Sometimes, perhaps, but certainly not always. I did clean this up a bit; I fixed some spelling and grammatical errors, and I altered a few lines within the story so that it would make more sense and flow more smoothly. I did not add any new scenes to it, however, in order to retain the integrity of the piece for what it is. Critique is appreciated, although I did receive it already through the Ambage back in November. -ibrow
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Breathe in. A gasp of breath. Breathe out. A rattle of air expelled from dying lungs. Let the air flow through you, clensing, washing away your sins and memories as you wash the dirt from your body. The battlefield's cold wind gusts through the valley, chilling the fighters to the bone and beyond, their very souls frozen. Clear the sounds from your mind. A grenade blast not fifteen feet away, the pressure wave blowing out the young soldier's eardrums. He's deaf, he can't hear-just a loud ringing, and soon, even that died away. Draw within yourself, to find your inner core. Another soldier lying on the ground, his white winter coat stained with dark blood, trying in vain to hold himself in one piece, unable to do more than that as he sits in shock. Find your peace. The dead sergeant's face, peaceful at last, in its lack of movement. *** Jacob frowned, sighing, the memories of the battles coming back to haunt him again. He couldn't find the peace that he needed, he couldn't just forget, he couldn't drive the images away... The stench of blood and gunsmoke pervades the air as Jacob frowns, a small M3 submachine gun held in his hands. His squadmates behind him held an assortment of weapons ranging from Thompsons, M! Garands, and M1918 A1 BAR's in their hands, to the pistols holstered at their belts, the grenades chinking in pockets on their chest. He shook his head, stepping inside. He'd tried enough for one day. Tomorrow, he'd probably repeat the same events, only to find himself disturbed again. Such was his life. He reached up to the cupboard in his kitchen, pulling out his cereal, pouring himself a bowl, robotically moving through the motions of getting himself something to eat. Slowly, jerkily, almost robotically Jacob pulled himself through the remnants of the small town that they'd been fighting in. Rubble littered the streets, cartridge casings gleamed and rolled around on the ground...the moans of the dying and the dry sobs of their friends pervaded the air, assaulting his eardrums with their melancholy sound. Sitting at the table, Jacob morosely stirred his spoon in the cereal bowl, only taking one or two bites in the next three minutes. The memories were assaulting him again, coming back in full force, as they always did, forcing him to relive every last moment of the war. "Hands up," one of the soldiers growled, his bayonet jabbing in the German soldier's back. Jacob's M3 was trained upon him, as were his fellows' weapons. He stood there, baring his teeth like a mad animal as they led him out to join his fellows, tossing him a shovel. Jacob closed his eyes, leaning back from his barely touched cereal, and rubbing his temples. Always, always headaches came with the memories. Always having to remind him of the physical pain he had felt, then, always forcing him to close his eyes, to view the memories as though on a movie screen on his eyelids, always making the headaches stronger. "Bitte, bitte!" The German cried, staring in horror at the bodies of his fellows, having fallen into the elongated holes they'd dug. "Schaden Sie mir nicht!" Jacob stood back, his M3 held loosely in his hands as the sergeant, having ignored the small man's plea for mercy, read off of a short sheet, a crude mockery of a court martial sentence. Slowly he stood, turning down the hall, ignoring the news on the TV-talking about some victory or another back in Iraq, where the new boys were fighting. He could care less-they'd feel the same as he did, some day soon. He was certain of it. It was inevitable, really. It apparently always happened to the more normal ones. The sentencing done, the sergeant stepped back, ignoring the blatant, unhidden terror on the condemned soldier's face. Nathaniel lowered his rifle, and a single shot was all that was needed to end the German's life. A spray of blood flew from the point of impact, splattering Jacob across the face. He didn't even care enough to wipe it away. He stumbled into his bedroom, stepping over to the table he had at the side of it. Pulling the stopper from the bottle he took one more swig, finishing the contents within. It burned like sandpaper going down, but that was all that Jacob needed to fortify himself for what he was doing next. A quick burst of gunfire, and another man went down, Jacob continuing through the streets, his weapon raised, bullets qiuckly spurting out and taking down any enemy soldier he saw. He ducked behind cover, staying put by Erin. He looked up, checked the streets, and gave the all clear. Erin rushed out, to the next piece of cover, only for one last fighter, one last German soldier who'd been lying in wait for him stepped forwards with a bayonet. Erin would never breathe again. Find the right key, find the key, end the memories once and for all. Ah, there it was. Jacob, his hands shaking now, pushed the key into the lock on the large, metal safe before him, a single twitch all it took to unlock it and open the door. A moment after that and his shaking hand reached within, grasping a small object and pulling it out. Jacob didn't even yell. He stalked forwards, quietly, aiming to surprise the soldier. He could already hear his breath. A single step more...the German popped out, bayonet ready, but Jacob was prepared for that. He deflected it by throwing up his M3, catching the bayonet in the stock of his weapon, and a simple twist and pull was all he needed to remove the German's weapon from him. In the cabinet, there it was. A single magazine, shiny, gleaming new. Jacob pulled it out, looking at it with a dull, uninterested glance, before he set it down. He moved up his thumb, popping several bullets out of it, until one was all that was left. Jacob gasped, bending over as he was kicked in the stomach, his weapon ripped from him as well. He looked up to see the German pointing a pistol at him, a sneer on his face, before Jacob sprang forward. The latter soldier tackled the former to the ground, the Luger falling a few feet away. He slid the magazine, with its single .45 caliber bullet, into the handgrip of his M1911. The one souvenir, after his scars, he'd kept from the war. The only thing he owned that he could expect to work perfectly every time, never to fail him. And the magazine fit perfectly, just as it always did. Jacob headbutted the German soldier in the face, again, knocking his head back to the ground, dazed, bleeding from the now-broken nose. Just as he began to come to he would see Jacob standing above him, his M1911, already just as battle scarred as Jacob was himself, pointed for his forehead. Pull back the slide, disengage the safety. Robotically, in almost slow motion, Jacob pulled back the slide of his weapon, a bullet clicking into place, and with the thumb of his other hand he disengaged the safety on his weapon. It was ready. Make sure you had your target ready, pointed straight for the brain. A quick, clean kill. A slight adjustment in his aim and Jacob's pistol barrel was pointed right at the spot in between the German's two, bright blue eyes, which were simultaneously glaring at Jacob and glancing apprehensively at the pistol he held. Just a moment longer, savour the victory... Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger.
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DES MOINES, IOWA – The state cross-country meet was raging for the Class 2A Boys. In the lead was senior Rob Macker, but his team wasn’t cheering him on. The other seniors were, sure, but of particular interest for this match among all the underclassmen was Rob’s younger brother, Matt, the rising star for the Warriors. He was a mere freshman, and he was in second place. The history to their competition was interesting. Rob had come in first place for the 5k every year since his freshman year. He had let himself shine, and this senior year he wanted to solidify his perfect streak and his legacy. It was cool that his brother was making it tough for him, though. Perhaps if Matt won, Rob could enjoy cheering on his brother’s chance at a perfect streak. Yet, since they were both in high school at the same time, only one of them could have it. And Rob wanted it so bad. It felt like they were on their last half-kilometer. Rob kicked in his final burst. Meanwhile, Matt trailed ten yard behind him. He wanted it, too, and he wanted that perfect streak. It was something worth fighting for, and he wasn’t going to let his brother have it. Want. Desire. Matt wasn’t going to settle for second. He sprinted like crazy. For a moment, he passed up Rob, but Rob ran even harder. They were both dying as they suffered the fruits of their own determination. Then the finish line came in sight, and they sprinted even harder, as if they were running down a 100m dash. By two footsteps, Matt won. “Thirteen minutes!” shouted a friend. “Could have cheered more,” said Rob. His friend Sam handed Rob his hat. Coach Leer wasn’t happy for them. Matt didn’t quite understand it. He went over with Rob to make sure that their times were indeed at thirteen minutes. He showed them the time grimly, and though confused, Matt and Rob cheered and rejoiced. Then Coach Leer interrupted the powwow with a hand on Rob’s shoulder, and he said just loud enough that only Rob, Matt, and their best friends could hear, “Rob, your brother Craig is dead.” Craig was killed by a drunk driver while biking to the library. He was a junior and always a bit of a loner. People didn’t appreciate him much, but Matt always figured his day would come. He didn’t count on…these things. The next day, everyone knew, and was wearing black. Attention. Oh boy. From people who were mean to him and people who didn’t even know him. Then there was a girl who wore a dress that broke school policy. Matt felt an irrational hatred toward her. How disrespectful. He resigned from these people. He couldn’t live in their presence. Matt went to his classes, but didn’t talk to anyone. Rob came to school just to pick up homework, and left. The worst part about being sad was knowing just how sad others were, so he had to be sad for his brother’s sadness. Then he knew that Rob might be feeling the same way. Circles. The day after that, Friday, Matt decided to do what Rob did, and came only to pick up assignments before heading home. He did his work, and Rob did… Mother was home. Father was with the funeral director. When they had lunch together, Craig’s usual chair was empty, and nobody talked. When both brothers were done with their homework, almost instantly, Rob locked himself up in his room and never came out for the rest of the day. Matt wanted to do the same, but he ended up sitting down with his back against Rob’s door while he ticked away at the time, wondering how long it would take before things would ever be normal, or if he would be like Batman and just be troubled for the rest of his life. After a month, Rob put his hat back on again. It was really strange, though. Rob had always been the cool kid. People had looked up to him with respect but not…respect. It was different with Matt’s friends. His were relatively new, made just in high school. He hadn’t gone through four years of them yet. It felt like they knew him for his tragedy first and not for the brother and friend he had been beforehand, so he began spending time with Rob’s friends. They had once made fun of Craig, but at least they knew him. Then one day Rob did not sit with his friends. Matt looked around and found Rob eating outside, looking through brochures. “Aren’t you going to get in trouble?” asked Matt. Dumb question. Rob never got in trouble for anything and could break any school rule he wanted. “No,” said Rob. He left his bench and reentered the school, placing his flyers in a side-pocket in Matt’s backpack as he passed. Matt looked at them himself and saw that they had information on the marines. During their family supper, Rob wasn’t shy in bringing it up. “Dad, I’m joining the marines.” Perhaps it was supposed to be one of those special father-to-son moments, but it played out with the whole family. Without much questioning, Father supported the idea. Mother was against it, and Matt… He was curious. “Why?” “Because I’m not going to settle for tragedy anymore,” said Rob. “I’m not going to settle for loss. I want that so bad, but I haven’t given it my all, yet. I was meant for more than running 5ks in thirteen minutes.” There was more arguing, and with half a heart Matt pleaded Rob not to, but he was forced into understanding his brother. After the year and the graduation ceremony were over, Rob’s friends, all knowing his intentions, patted him on the back. When everyone left his grad party, Rob took off his hat and handed it to Matt. “Remember to settle for nothing less than your best life.” =[]= Curse the, thy foul word limit! Nevermore shall I endure your toxic burden! No, I take that back. I'm really being far too angsty and dramatic. Maybe I should just accept that this would have been better as a much longer story, because I can see how this could easily carry out to 5k if I had carried it out to its natural length. As it happens, this is very much contensed. Meanwhile, this has absolutely nothing to do with my story We Are Young, even though I use the same characters. There will be nothing quite so sad over there. 24601
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: Beyond the Ridge of Tears : Far away, beyond the Ridge of Tears, there is a deep chasm. The worms cannot cross the chasm. They never have, at least, and that is good. It has allowed us to thrive, after so much death. The black-haired woman showed us the way. It was on a night full of storm that she came, a night when the worms hid deep within their lairs beneath the earth, all around our settlement. The last settlement, scarcely a few hundred of us left. I was only a child, and even I knew that much. She came down the pathway out of the fields and stood before the Stone House of my father, and my father went out to her while the thunder crashed above, and the people gathered to watch. It was night, and still they gathered, for the storm was a relief. The worms would not venture out while the sun was veiled. I watched from the window above as the woman addressed them. I could not hear everything, but I heard some. She spoke of far-off fields, and a country where the devourers could not reach us. She spoke of new life, but it came with a cost: “You must leave behind this place and all that you have,” she said. “It is a hard journey, for you must pass beyond the Ridge of Tears. Or else, stay, and be devoured. I can give you no more hope than this: on the third day from now, a sign will come, and you must make your choice.” My father the chief tried to address her then, but she raised her hand and stooped to whisper in his ear, and he fell silent. “On the third day you will make your choice.” A noise of wings flapped in the torrent, and for a moment I thought I saw the shape of a bird, crow-like, fluttering up into the darkness. But then it was gone, and the people stood silent and dripping, my father among them. I do not know all that she whispered to him, but I do know that he was a changed man after that night. There was something in his eyes. Something clearer, sharper. I first noticed it when he called the Meeting together the very next morning, once the storm had broken. He stood in front of the people—their chief—and spoke to them of what the woman had said. Many had seen her, and many wondered what her coming portended. “We must leave this place,” he said to them. “She will show us where to go.” Many dissented. They did not trust the word of the woman. “How can we know that this is true?” they said, “It is certain death to cross the waste now.” “It is certain death, but only a quicker death than we will suffer here. Our crops are burned, our livestock devoured, and the worms grow ever bolder. I know it is hard…hard to leave all this behind, but we must if we are to live on. I may dwell in the Stone House for now, but when I and my son are gone, it will be only rocks piled one upon another, and one day the worms will devour even those.” Others spoke of the sign. “Let us wait," they said. "Let us watch for the sign. Only then must we choose. We will watch and wait.” So the days passed. Three sunny days, and the devourers stalked the shimmering horizons, croaking and waiting for their prey to stir, playing their deathly flame over the already-burnt fields. I remember that the water-skin sprang a leak on the first day, and we were thirsty by evening. So thirsty. And yet my father did not care. His eyes were bright. He bade me gather my things from the upper room, and all our tools, and he patched the water-skin as best he could. Then we waited. Two more days of waiting, two more days of thirst, as the worms drew ever closer. Soon they would return to the settlement. Soon they would stalk the streets, and this time not even the walls of the Stone House would save us. But then the evening of the third day came, darkness falling fast, and the people came forth from their shanties to watch, for they remembered the words of the woman, clinging to that hope as the devourers croaked in the gathering dark. My father and I stood on the path before the Stone House with our packs made ready, and many stood with us, watching, waiting… Suddenly a cloud of sulfur swept down the pathway, and a child cried out in the crowd as a worm came bellowing out of the darkness at the edge of the settlement. There were no walls now. Nowhere to hide. Its skin was like stone, sloughing off dust and death, and its jaws were full of liquid fire. The crowd shuddered, and many turned to flee. This would be the end of us. Was this the sign the woman had promised? There was fear in the air, and yet my father stood firm. “The sign will come!” he yelled, and the people near him stood still once more with newfound determination. The sign will come. The worm gave a roar as it spilled flame over the hovels nearby, and the smoking stench filled my lungs. Many fell to their knees, choking. The sign will come. Another bellow rang out from the darkness, and many more joined it. A circle of fire springing up around the settlement as the worms closed in— —And then something changed. Something in the wind, and with one movement we turned our heads toward the north and saw the storm. The sign. Thunder broke over the scene, and the worms writhed and fled as the rain fell in sheets, and then it retreated north again. Northward, it said to us. You must make the choice. And it was settled. : : An entry for the Ambage Fortnightly Flash Fiction Contest. Theme: Settlement. JRRT
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Noticing a news article for an Ambage writing contest right after joining, I gave it some thought, and realized I had a good idea to go with the theme. Or good-ish, at least. lol Anyway, so here's a short story I wrote for the Ambage Fortnightly Flash Fiction Contest. Dancing With Shadows I moved stealthily through a dark aisle in a warehouse. Where is my quarry? I wondered. This was the right place. But where is she...? It all started two days ago. I'd gotten a call from Headquarters saying they had tracked her down. She was going to meet with some criminal colleagues in a warehouse not far from my vacation spot. Doesn't it just figure? I remember thinking. Take a vacation and she shows up nearby. Typical. Why had it taken me two days to get to the warehouse? That's a story for another time. Let's just say it involved an ice-cream truck and a group of enraged monkeys and leave it at that. So here I was, sneaking around in a warehouse, once again putting myself in mortal danger, searching for her, when I was supposed to be enjoying my vacation. Suddenly I saw a figure pass into the aisle ahead of me. There! I followed. Stealthily I strove to gain ground, not making a sound. Suddenly the figure dashed ahead. How had she heard me? I cursed my luck as I charged forward. Reaching the point from which she'd taken off, I angrily smashed in a small mirror with my elbow. I was a little faster than her, and steadily gained ground. I have to reach her before her friends arrive! If they're not here already... Suddenly she made a brilliant leap and grabbed a shelf, gracefully hauling herself to the top of the shelving unit. I followed, albeit a bit more clumsily. She'd already leapt to the next unit. As I leaped after her, she was already on her way to the next. As this continued, I realized I wasn't gaining ground anymore. Frustrated, I grabbed a small box from the shelves and flung it at her. My aim was true, but the missle was intercepted by a flying kick, the scattered remains raining to the floor. I re-doubled my efforts, and was pleased to find after a few leaps that I was gaining. Then she stopped, turned, and smiled at me. Inwardly I sighed. And now, as usual, begins round two... I landed by her side and we began to exchange blows, each of us displaying masterful skill in the martial art. Mind you, hers was always more agile and graceful than my heavy-handed form. But she was never as strong as me. I remember the days we had trained together... So long ago, in that old monastery, deep in the Outback of the Down Under. Long, long ago... Before she'd turned to a life of crime and helped to have the monastery burned. I'd never understood it. "Still haven't lost it", was my incendiary remark. "Doing fine yourself", she retorted. We moved through form after form, exchanging blow after blow, neither tiring, neither landing any major strikes, though by now my lip was bleeding, and her leg now bore a welt. Trouble was we knew one another's styles too well. We knew what the other would do before the other did it. Compounding the problem, for me, was that I was the best at dealing with her. Headquarters had tried sending others, but those attempts had always... Failed. Now they always insisted on me. But we always mirror each other perfectly. It was a complicated and deadly game we played. Skill didn't matter. The only way to win was through the spontaneous unorthodox. Should've seen that coming. Instead of blocking my blow, she let it land and put in one of her own in the same moment. It didn't hit me hard, but it put me off balance, and in the worst of timing, when I was already on the edge of the shelf structure. I fell into empty space. The air whipped through my ears. Then an idea occurred to me. I wasn't sure it would work, but I was desperate... I grabbed a shelf so that my body curved toward the center structure, and slammed my feet into it. Two things happened at once. The structure shook, toppling her off balance. Then the entire unit began to tilt over, to her surprise as well as mine. I managed to leap clear and find my footing on the floor, whereas she toppled painfully down to it. I was upon her in an instant, and I could tell she was physically beaten. She laughed, then glared at me furiously. "Finish it, then", she snarled. I glared down at her furiously, prepared to deliver. But in that moment, I couldn't help remembering the last time we'd fought... It had been two months before. Similar situation. She was up to no good, I was sent in to stop her. Only that time, she'd beaten me. But just before landing the final blow, something had come over her... And she'd let me live. I took two steps back and glared. "Your mission has failed. And our debt is settled." She looked surprised for but an instant, then winked and smiled. Then she was gone. I stared at the floor in fury. How long can this go on...? She, worming her way around in my heart... I heard footsteps behind me. Her friends were here. Good, I thought. I could use some exercise about now... Well, I hope you enjoyed Dancing With Shadows. Constructive criticism, comments, etc. are of course more than welcome.
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The man slumped, tired, into the third chair from the left. The usual bustle of the law firm’s waiting room was withdrawing for the night, until its return at seven o’clock sharp the next morning, always stylishly prompt. He sighed and ran two fingers through his dark hair. It had been a long day. The next employer had fired him, just like the last two. Can’t take money from me, Mike, he’d said. I don’t care how many mouths you’ve got to feed. And then he was out of work yet again. And so the pattern of misfortune would continue like it had. The faded tan of his coat contrasted the deep red of his shirt, bought only last week, after his previous one had been too threadbare to tolerate. His denim jeans were headed down the same path, an obvious conclusion upon taking a single look. At last the door opened and the man stood up, straightened his coat and the already-straight-enough tie, made a half-hearted effort to tuck in his shirt, and walked into the office. The lawyer sat there, left arm placed on the corresponding armrest of his large office chair, the brown leather pleasantly reminding the visitor of an elderly man’s worn face. The pen click-tapped on the wooden desk and then alighted on the lawyer’s ear, both arms now up on the desk, his right hand supporting his chin. “So,” he asked, “what brings you here tonight, Michael?” and smiled emptily as if he didn’t already know. Playing along with this charade of obliviousness, the visitor replied, “Looking for a job.” “Well, I’m sorry to tell you,” the lawyer winced with false sympathy, “I don’t run a hiring agency, and I’ve already got a secretary. Oh, and a janitor, too.” “Yes, I know. Are you sure there isn’t any small way I could help a very competitive man like yourself in his endeavors?” “Now that you mention it, the Burton - Graham case is getting a little out of hand. Of course that simpleton isn’t innocent, but he did hire me and now I’ve gotta clear him.” Michael looked across the mahogany desk at the lawyer. He knew that it’d be like this before he had entered. That didn’t make it any easier to accept; but when you were as close to broke as you can be, you had to do some things you wouldn’t want to otherwise. The system was his scapegoat, the target of his blame; the judiciaries were the ones responsible for his troubles. If only the defendant hadn’t hired the best lawyer in the state, he’d be fine. Of course, the best lawyer in the state was, and had been, Jason Nichols. But there was nothing Michael could do now, really. “Then how would you like me to help?” he grudgingly asked. The lawyer eyed Michael from across the desk, and sighed as he spun his pen between two fingers. “Well let me see…” the lawyer trailed off, looking at the bland grey ceiling while mumbling to himself. “Ah, that’s it- here.” So saying, he handed a small round pill bottle to his visitor. The white cylinder was unmarked save for three carefully made green dots on the lid. “Graham’s lawyer, rival of mine, takes regular medication for a minor liver condition. Perhaps there would be unexpected side effects if, say, his prescription were to be changed?” As he said this he reached into his desk and removed a pair of perfectly smooth, crisp fifty-dollar bills, then handed them to Michael. The visitor nodded and sighed. Pocketing the cash and the blank bottle, he stood up and bowed his head. When he next spoke Michael’s voice was choked by a sudden biting resentfulness. “You know I wouldn’t be doing this, Nichols…” “Of course,” replied the lawyer who had taken apart Michael’s life, arguing against an innocent man, five years before. His mock sympathy had returned. “I know just why you’re doing this, and of course, you have my sympathy.” Jason grinned coldly. And Michael noiselessly left, hands in his pockets. Four days later Jason Nichols was dead. The scene of the crime- his office- was sealed off in accordance with police protocol. The old leather chair had recently acquired a red-rimmed hole from which leaked sickly yellow cotton. On the desk there was a bullet shell, a scorch mark, and fifty dollars, forlorn and crumpled. Under it there was an empty pill bottle with three green dots on the lid. Michael hadn’t wanted to do it- he wasn’t one for revenge- but Graham’s lawyer had paid him four hundred. That would be enough to feed his family for a month or so. It would be fine, for a while at least. Some say that in a time of crisis the need outweighs the guilt. And at the end of the day, are we only human after all? I've had this in progress for a little while, and honestly I do like it. This has gone through a lot of changes and edits to the point where I'm satisfied with it; and it sort of fits the theme for this week's FFFFC, so I'll be entering it for that, too. So, tell me what you think, if you want.
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He looked at the cold waters in front of him, then at the forest behind him. All around him, men and women were hauling materials; occasionally a small child would run back and forth, delivering messages. He himself held a crate of tools in his hands, but he allowed himself a minute or two of rest and recollection. It wasn't every day you went to a new land, after all. It was a new life, a new world for him to explore. An entire ocean rested between him and his old home now. It truly was something to marvel at, and something to fear at the same time.Sighing, he carried the crate to a nearby pile of them, looking at the men sitting nearby playing a game of dice. Even so far out here, the work was being divided up amongst the unlucky. Some things would never change, even so far away. He put his crate down in a neat fashion and pried it open, revealing a number of axes. Pulling one out, he glanced at the group further away in the forest and went to join them. It took him some time but he finally arrived, lending his help to the men cutting down wood. The fall was here, and if they couldn't build shelter quickly then they'd all freeze in this new and unknown land. It was a tedious and hard job, but someone had to do it, and he was among one of the strongest youths in the party.That night there were many celebrations, several fires roaring and the best of the salted meat roasted and eaten. The ale brought along was broken out and all were happy to have made the great journey safely. They were a tight band, seventy six heads if you included the three natives they had come across in the lands to the far north they passed while on the voyage. It was a marvelous party, and he enjoyed himself thoroughly throughout it. When it had all died down and many were asleep, he stayed up, gazing at the sky. Even though they had traveled thousands of miles, the stars still were the same. It was a strange thing that he doubted he'd ever understand.Someone came from behind, a young woman. He smiled and they embraced, then looked at the stars together. The months ahead would test the mettle of all involved; society itself would have to be rebuilt. Houses would be erected, wells dug, hunting grounds established. Perhaps there would be combat with the natives; perhaps a famine would strike. Regardless, he knew he had to keep his spirits up. The gods would watch over them, he was sure. In his eyes he could see a prosperous future, thousands living in this Newfound land. There'd be children in the streets, bakers, farmers, blacksmiths, cities...And so, with that, he returned to the camp and slept. Slept and waited for what tomorrow would bring. [--------] At 495 words, this story was written for the Ambage Skype Write Off and is being posted for the Flash Fiction contest because of much arm twisting it fits the bill nicely. More of a setting piece but that's what you get when you write something in fifteen minutes and spend the first five asking questions. Yes they're Vikings, and yes it's not exactly historically accurate.
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The woman trudged up the snowy incline, a settler of disaster on her way home. The canvas satchel thudded against her back, though numb as she was with cold, it did not bother her. An owl cried out amongst the snowflakes. She stopped and turned her back to the wind, glaring towards the chilled breeze. The owl called again. She turned in a circle slowly, searching for the source of the hooting sound. No sign. She began to walk again. Up the incline, then down again, meandering purposefully through the snow. The colony was barely visible, obscured as it was by the white sheet that Nature had laid; merely a few small huts clinging to the white plain. This colony was aptly named Disaster; monikers like Safety and Fortitude only seemed to encourage strife. This was the way things were, as they knew it. They had come here many months ago, looking for fertile land after their last several plots had run dry and frozen. But Nature had forsaken them, as they now knew, for each land to which they ventured soon became crushed by drought, seared by fires of the forest, or cocooned in winter’s harshness. The people of Disaster were hardy farmers, tough, and they knew how to survive this pain, for a time. Sooner or later they knew that something had to change; Disaster would hold no more, and a new settlement would be needed. They would move on, they would adapt. - - - The woman trudged up the grassy incline, a settler of disaster moving on. The canvas satchel thudded against her back, though joyous as she was with hope, it did not bother her. A bluebird cried out amongst the raindrops. She stopped and smiled. Slightly less "meh" than some of my other entries- I actually like this one, although it was cut a bit short by the time limit. I'm also posting this as one of two entries for this week's Fortnightly Flash Fiction Contest.
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For a long while now I've been considering joining the Ambage. When the Ambage first started up a while ago, I was skeptical that it would last, for all of the other BZP writers' groups/clubs I'd seen in my time always died of inactivity (not to mention they seemed more focused on giving out "rewards" rather than actually encouraging writers to improve their craft). I fully expected the Amabage to die within a month or so; after all, that's what happened to all of the other BZP writers' groups/clubs and the Ambage didn't seem any different to me. To my genuine surprise, however, the Ambage has not only survived perhaps longer than any other BZP writers' group/club, but is actually thriving. It made me rethink my decision not to join it, especially when I saw how many of my fellow writers have already joined it. Problem is, I'm a loner. I have no problem working with others, but I've never been a fan of clubs that reward members with "points" for completing certain objectives as if writing was some kind of video game. To me, writing is its own reward and these "points" and "rewards," I felt, would actually distract me from writing something good or worthwhile or even just entertaining. The clubs just never seemed helpful; after all, there are a ton of books and websites out there that can give you a much better idea of how to write effectively than anything these clubs could offer. Not to mention I'm not sure how active I want to be in the group. I don't want to join and then never actually do anything or participate in any of the contests or write-offs the group does. What would be the point of joining if I was just going to act like I wasn't a member? I just don't know how much time I want to spend on it, but at the same time I don't want to feel guilty for not being as active as I "should" be (whatever "should" means here). So I've decided that I need some compelling reasons to join the Ambage. Anyone who is a member of the Ambage or has had experience with the Ambage may explain, in the comments section, why I should join the Ambage. Your comment doesn't need to be particularly long or detailed, but please don't say "Because it's fun, of course" or some such thing because then I'll ignore you. I'll decide for myself if it is fun, thank you very much, although if you think it is fun you can explain why you do anyway. Also note that I am not going to be making a decision based purely on what people in the comments said. I've already thought very much about this decision and am only doing this blog entry to open me to alternative reasons or points of view that may not have occurred to me. It will be entirely up to me to decide whether to join the Ambage after this. So y'all better pull up your salesperson pants and tell me why I should join the Ambage. -TNTOS-
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NIXIE DRIFTED UP ON THE BLUE, BLUE SHORES OF SOME DISTANT LAND. Her raft was ruined, and her thick, curly hair in her face. She was unconscious and incapable of really noticing that she had come to a stop. It was a while before she woke up. The calm, peaceful sun beat down upon her. She peered out at the world from behind her dark brown eyes, not really feeling anything, other than a deep desire to feel the sun as a gift of comfort and not as a reminder of her dryness and her lack of drink. She got up. Looked around. Shook her head. There was nothing but the green of tropical trees, the light tan of the beaches, and the aquamarine color of the see. It was beautiful, like some sort of paradise. She was alive. Yet for now, all she could do was roll off of the raft and sit there, her bottom in the sand, her hands on her lap as she looked out into the vast infinity of the see. She would need food and water soon, but before that she just needed to ponder what she had lost. No, she hadn't lost anything. Her friends and her younger brother were still out there, just out of reach. She new she would see them someday. it was just a matter of having faith and starting to search. Somewhere across the waters... She got up and grabbed her bag from the top of the raft. Its strap that was supposed to hoist around her shoulder was broken, so she used it as a rope and just dragged it across the sand. It formed a line, and the line disappeared into the trees. She had managed to spot without much difficulty the highest point on the island. It was a large rock outcropping, like a spine coming out of the earth. Along the way, she found strange new fruits and gave them a try, risking her life on the hope that they weren't poison. She tried their bright orange and yellow and green juices and was replenished. Ah, that was so much better. It wasn't enough to lighten up her head quite yet, though, so she decided she would make camp. That wasn't so difficult, since the leaves on this island were huge. In fact, some of them reached eleven feet across, by her guestimate, since they were about twice her length. It would be easy to make a tent out of them. But not here in the forest. No, she picked a few, rolled them up, and set them out on the beach and set up a tent there. There would be no bugs and no creepy things to crawl over her while she slept. The next day, she ate some more and gathered up food, and then she went back to the tall rock she saw. It took a bit of climbing, and her grip was only so strong, but she wanted to give it a try. She saw the jagged face of the rock through the trees and ran up to it, then looked for a foothold. She then, through force of determination, found a way up, and endurance came to her through the form of a continued sense of wonder. Once she was halfway up, she saw the world around her in an outstanding beauty. The bright blue area where the deep see came up to the sandy beach was beautiful. The island wasn't that large, but she couldn't gather its exact size until she got to the top of the rock that afternoon. She stood there, on a narrow pathway, able to look southease and northwest of the aisle, out upon the surrounding isle. It was about five miles across. "Hello?" she cried out. "Is anyone here?" No answer. "HELLOOOOO?" There looked to be no sort of settlement on the island. She figured she would leave, then. It wasn't worth staying if there was nobody here to help her. It was best to just pack up fruits onto the raft. She climbed down the rock to get back to the raft. "Hey, wait," said a voice. She looked around and saw a golden bug on the rock, about the size of the palm of her hand. It had eight legs along a segmented body, and then a front area like a centaur, which had pincers for arms and these two beady eyes on the ends of stalks, which swiveled about comically. He looked like a scorpion or a crab of some sort. It was a bit strange, but she had seen a lot of strange and unexplainable things since she had left home. "Hello, who are you?" she asked. "I'm the only person on this island," said the bug person. "But you're a bug," said Nixie. "A bug person," said the bug person. "What's a matter. Haven't you ever seen a dichester before?" "Have you ever seen a human before?" asked Nixie. "Come to think of it, I have no idea what you are," said the bug-person-dichester. "Well I'm leaving this island," she said. "I'm coming with you," said the dichester. "And my name is Jetty." "Nice to meet you, Jetty. My name is Nixie. And yes, you can come with me, but I'm leaving this island." "I know. I figured that you came on a raft, and I've been lonely for a while now." That evening, Nixie sat under the tent with a fire started to keep them warm and cook some fish that she caught, while she recorded her thoughts into her journal, the sole item she carried with her in her bag. She bit into a golden apple, and its juice dripped onto the pages, right on top of her brother's name. Then she stopped and contemplated it all. Where she was right now, the encounter she had with Jetty, and the leap of faith she was taking by setting her raft out onto the open ocean again. She came out of her tent and called out Jetty's name. He came scurrying over, leaving little dots for tracks behind him. They ate what food was left, but it was a quick meal. She wanted to drift into the night time and make as much use of the cool moonlight air as possible. Jetty got onto the recrafted raft while Nixie got out on back and pushed it into the ocean. After paddling along for a while, cutting her knee on a piece of coral, she pulled herself on and let herself dry off, putting herself at a distance from her bag so that she didn't get her journal wet. And so they went off with the stars in the sky, ready to discover another of the many islands out there, hopefully one that had friends and support. And when they looked out, there were many stars, and they were reflected upon the water so that the division between the heavens and the waters was impossible to make, and it was all one swirling cosmos. Nixie had seen this before, but this was during a vision where she was given sight over the entire universe, and she knew everything, and she knew where she was. She still wondered if that wasn't a dream, if it wasn't for how she had mysteriously came to a paradise once it was over. She could only wish that the same force was watching over her still, and she rolled onto her back and slept, with her new companion using her hair as a bed. It was a weird world out there, but it was also beautiful.
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This tower had fallen long ago. Rubble littered the misty, forested land of the former battleground; not a soul in sight, living or dead. Perhaps great and terrible things had once happened here, but there was no evidence anymore. Just half a tower and a pile of stones amidst the trees. I jogged quickly, ducking through the ruins with a practiced air. The remains of the old army lookout post had practically been my home the past few days. Best place to hide out when things got a little dangerous. I strode into the clearing that had once been the center of the tower. A short quarter-ring stone wall edged the expanse. Walking to a pile of stones and logs designed to camouflage the tent, I stopped. Something wasn’t right at all. Carefully, I kept walking as if nothing was wrong. I’d trained myself to follow my instincts, and to trust the feeling that you were being watched. This was when I needed those skills the most. Crouching down below the wall level, I moved towards the tent as if entering. If I stayed inside then whoever was observing would no doubt approach. So instead, I crawled back around the wall, and cautiously peered over. Yes, there it was. A grey form plodded through the mist of the darkening evening. There was nothing to do. I ran. A shout rang from behind, then a gunshot. A tree shattered. No time to think. No time to stop. Go. Run. The war had ended long ago, but I was still fighting, and now someone had tracked me out here, of all places. How…?I kept running through the trees. I knew where I was going, but only vaguely. But that didn’t matter now. The trees all blurred together and eventually it was all the same color, the grey of the mist and the sunless twilight, the bark of the trees, running on, running. I had been trained for this. I couldn’t hear the man behind me over the sound of my breath and my footsteps, but the feeling of eyes on the back of my head remained, so I ran on. Eventually I saw it. A stone. Profile hugging the ground, between the trees. Run. I was back at the ruins of the tower. Here’s where I could gather my supplies and take him. Faster now, ducking through, between, around, the blind grey stones not sparing me a glance nor I them as I sped by. And there I was. I could barely see the wall and the ruins in the darkness that had overtaken the grey dusk, but they were there. I ran to where the tent would be. Nothing. What? Nothing there. I ran to the wall where I had buried a few emergency supplies. The wall? Where? There was no wall. I heard a crashing behind me. The man who had chased me stomped into the clearing. And I remembered then the story of the two towers that had fallen to the enemy all those years ago. So. This was the end of the war. So this was... okay. Just a quick write-off piece. Wanted something first-person, not boring, and barely on-topic (theme was "the tower"). And besides, I just wanted to contribute to the new COT Library, great establishment that it is, (or will be if all goes according to the plan,) because as we know, it needs a lot more stuff.
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SUSY HAD THE POWER TO TURN THINGS INTO ANY COLOR OF THE RAINBOW SHE CHOSE. It was a very potent power. She was going to make all the difference in the world with it. By that, of course, one can only assume that all the difference in the world equated to making children happier, and she was most often seen changing the colors of balloons and carnival candy. It was a pretty cool benefit, actually. She got to see the smiles of children all the time and she let them believe in magic and all that. In her mind, it was certainly making a difference.. Then her sister, Katy, found out that she wasn't just switching balloons and that it was an actual superpower. "Wait, seriously, can you actually just change the color of stuff at will?" she asked. "Yes. So?" asked Susy. "Can you change the color of my eyes?" Katy asked. "I always wanted blue eyes, but I didn't want them to be contacts. I want genuinely blue eyes." "What's wrong with the ones you have?" asked Susy. "I always liked your brown eyes." "But blue would be cooler," said Katy. "Why not? You have your superpowers. They're meant to be used, and you like using them to make life more fun. Why not make my eyes blue?" "I don't know," said Susan. "With great power comes great responsibility. I think your eyes were meant to be brown." "What's the difference between my eyes and those balloons?" asked Katy. "Well, a lot of things," said Susan. "You're a piece of art already so beautifully made. I'd hate to alter it. Balloons aren't that special. I don't think it's right. Please don't peer pressure me." "Alright, but could you change the colors of some of my clothes so that they match?" "Well, I guess I do that with my stuff every day," said Susan. She looked down at her Sunday clothes, which included a playful red tie half-taught around her neck and a red trench coat that made her feel nice and pirate-y. Red was her Sunday color, and she had orange for Monday, yellow for Tuesday, green for Wednesday, and so on, ending with violet for Saturday. "Sure. Is there anything you want?" "My prom dress isn't the right shade of pink. I'd also like some prismatic blue highlights," she said. "Something very artistic. Hey, there you go! Why don't you use your powers to be really artistic? You'd be the best artist in the world!" Susy liked that idea. After changing Katy's clothes, she went out to do a lot of "painting", although it was really just imagining any colorful image that came to her mind and willing it onto the canvas. She figured people really enjoyed that, too, just like they enjoyed balloons. It was different, but she still saw that it touched the world in new and unique ways. She even impressed a guy named Emperor Kraggh who did a lot of black-and-white pencil drawings and didn't normally see the value in colorful art. She painted chapels and buildings and giant murals with all the colors of the rainbow, glorifying sunsets and country life, city life, and life. She painted weather, childhood, adulthood, and the many things that people experienced between birth and death. It was all glorious, and she was sure she was making a difference. Then one day a man in a white suit and cape came to her. He had many, many superpowers and called himself Superman. "Susan," he said. "I heard you change the colors of clothes." "Wow, Superman. Yes, I do. What do you want?" "I also heard that you change the colors of balloons," he said. "Someone named Clark Kent wrote a very interesting story about it. I love how simple colors make such a huge difference in peoples' lives and spread so much love. I have a question." "Yes?" "Could you change the colors of my suit? They're all white, but I want a prism of the primary colors. My home planet is a world of crystals and light. I think it's a little more fitting." "Alright," said Susy. She touched Superman on the chest and a spectrum of three bright colors spread throughout: red, blue, and yellow, as bright as the laserlights from the crystals on Krypton. "Thank you," said Superman, and he flew off. Susy felt silly. She had no powers compared to him. And he was making a true difference. Then, a while later, it occurred to her that she created what might have been the mot iconic color scheme ever. And she lived on happily. It turned out that she really did make all the difference in the world with her power. ---------- For the sake of clarity and so that certain elements of this don't seem quite so jarring, this was part of an Ambage Write-Off, and it was our objective to write a Rainbows-themed story in 15 minutes. This was the first thing to come to mind. Looking at what everyone else wrote, I'm surprised to find that I'm the only person who actually played the theme straight. Almost everyone else used it to write something grim and/or depressing. Lighten up, folks! 24601
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Guilt I knelt silently before the grave, the small white card a temporary gravestone. ADRIANA MARTINEZ 1974-2012 LOVING WIFE AND MOTHER My eyes couldn’t leave her name. As much as I wanted them to, I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help but let the torrent of memories rush upon me. I remembered the first day we had met, how I had spilled her coffee accidentally, walking without paying attention to where I was going. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said quickly, taking out a napkin and handing it to her, picking up the fallen cup. “Here, let me buy you a new one.” I would’ve thought she’d be furious at me, but instead she simply smiled and allowed me to do so. I smiled back, and together we walked back into the coffee shop. It seemed so long ago now. A lifetime ago. Yet at the same time, it seemed like just yesterday. We shared a coffee together afterwards, and somehow I had had the courage to ask for her number, and even more of a miracle was that she had given me her real one, especially after I had just stained her blouse. That was one of the greatest days of my life. Then I remembered our first real date…how nervous I had been, how much I had prepared for it. How my best friend Aaron had helped me make it as perfect as possible. “Dude, chill, it’s going to be okay,” he said to me. But I couldn’t help it. I fidgeted nervously, wringing my hands together and pacing the backyard. I had set up a table accompanied by candles and a waiter in a tux: Aaron. Every second she didn’t show seemed like an hour. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” “Yes, it’s fine! Just look at it, it’s perfect,” he replied. I had to agree, it did look pretty nice. But that didn’t stop me from worrying. I had never felt this way about a woman before. I remembered just two days ago when I had only met her because of my clumsiness. I remembered the lovely conversation we had, where we discovered so many similarities. I remem— The doorbell rang. The intense desire burned in my heart all the greater and I rushed toward the door. A tear fell from my eye. She had loved that date so much, the perfect smile of hers always present on her face the whole night. Yet I couldn’t see it now. The memories were all a fog, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not see her face. Why? I asked myself, but could think of no answer. I shook my head quickly, trying to forget, focusing again on the happy memories. Yet that only made it worse as after every smile from every memory I realized that that was what I had lost. Her. Gone forever, those memories the only thing left of her. I buried my head in my hands as I remembered the day I proposed. A beautiful dinner at a fancy restaurant with a garden and balcony overlooking the ocean. I remembered how happy she had been when I got on one knee, but I couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see her smile, her face. It was the guilt. I had done this. It was because of me that she was dead. I should’ve listened to her when she begged me to leave my job – an undercover cop infiltrating one of the most vicious gangs in Los Angeles. It was dangerous. I knew that the moment I slipped up, the moment they found out, my family was dead. But I thought I was good enough. Good enough to evade their discovery forever. I was wrong. More tears fell. ”I’m sorry,” I whispered to the makeshift gravestone. Hoping I could say it to her, but knowing that I never could. I only wished she knew…knew how sorry I was. But it was too late now. She was gone. I tried to think of other happy memories – almost every moment we had spent together; our wedding, the happiest day of my life; the birth of our child, the second happiest day of my life. But I couldn’t. Now all I saw was her body with a hole in her head, a pool of blood under it. The duct-tape on her mouth, hands, and feet. The look of fear in her still-open, dead eyes. This picture of her face, her half blown-off face, would be the only one I could ever see again. Never again could I see her smile – only her fear. Her lifeless eyes. The guilt consumed me. Aaron approached from behind, probably wondering why I was still here, hours later after the funeral. “C’mon, man,” he said, “it’s not your fault.” “But it is.” And I knew that now, because of me, our children would have to grow up without a mother. ~ :: ~ A flash fiction piece I wrote a while ago for the Write-Off theme "guilt" -- saw that it fit the theme "gravestone" so decided to enter it into the contest. Not completely fond of this one, but we need more entries. If I wasn't in the middle of NaNo I probably would've re-written a lot of this, but oh well. Still, at least it's not the worst Write-Off piece I've written. Comments/etc. are welcome, but preferred in some other works of mine (such as Eldritch Abomination) that can be found in my library, the Shadowy Verge.
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THEO WAS LYING, AS ALWAYS, and he would never tell the truth. Neo couldn’t understand it, and he was sick of it. He made up his mind and decided that he would have nothing to do with him anymore. There was nothing – nothing – that could redeem this crooked old man.……….“Now wait just one minute. Where do you think you’re going?” said Theo. He put down his pen as Neo walked past his desk.……….“Out forever,” said Neo. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”……….“Do you mean to say what I think you mean?” asked Theo. He got up and put on his jacket. “Well, then, I’m coming with you.”……….“No, that’s against the point!” snapped Neo. “I’m leaving you and I’m never coming back! I’m never going to have anything to do with you. Do you realize how many people’s lives you mess with?”……….Theo was by Neo’s side now. He gave Neo a stern look. The crags that had accumulated over a long time over his forehead increased. It was the face of a man who always got his way and would not take “no” for an answer. “And where do you think you will go?”……….“That logic won’t work with me. That’s called making a deal with the devil, and he always comes to collect. I’m not going to do that. I’m not so short sighted or so low on faith. I’ll make ends meet.”……….“Boy, you have no idea what it’s like to make a deal with the devil,” said Theo. He put his hands in his pocket and lowered his head as they walked out of the business building. They passed Theo’s secretary, and Theo snapped his fingers. “Grab me a gun. I’m going out.” The waiter opened his drawer and threw a gun into Theo’s hands, which he took in stride and tucked underneath his jacket.……….They reached outside. There were many poor people on the street. Many of them had guns as well.……….“I’ve denied to other people, Neo, the consequences of my actions. I know this world is a hellhole right now, and the guilt for this situation lies in large part on my shoulders, but I have never hid this from you. When I compromised with evil in the hubris of my youth several generations ago, I put up a lie in my shame and in my sureness and conviction of my strength. Yet, that lie is pointless now. Your development has been much stronger now that you have seen the sins of the father. You can learn from my failures, and I have not yet finished grooming heroes to help me atone for my failures.”……….“I’m not going to be the one who helps you,” said Neo. “You don’t deserve it. I’ going to fix this world up, but it won’t be with the person who destroyed it.”……….“If you go right now I will shoot you,” said Theo.……….“Sir! You’re my grandfather!”……….“Great-great-grandfather, to be exact,” said Theo. “And I will only shoot you in the knee.”……….“I can’t believe you would do this. No, never mind. I can.”……….“I am your great-great-grandfather,” said Theo. “And you’re still pretty young. With your father dead and all those other generations gone, I’m the only father-figure you have, and as such, it is my right – no, it is my duty, to impart on you all the wisdom a father can bestow. Trust me, after several generations, I have improved. Do you know who you are? Of course not. That is why you need me, because I know who you are.”……….“What about Silver Bird? He was a mentor to my father, and his father.”……….“And your grandfather had even more angst than you when he was your age. However, as it happens, I know where Silver Bird is.”……….“You do?”……….“Yes, I do,” said Theo. “I’ve really been prepping you for guidance under him for quite some time. Since you’re officially taking things this far, I might as well take you to him. However, I must warn you, what you hear from him you will have to swallow. Come with me, then. I will take him to you, and in the meantime, there is something I want to show you.”……….So they walked around the building with the escort of Theo’s private security and found their way to a launching pad, with a small luxury ship. They got in, as they had many times before, drank their fine wine, and headed out into the stars.……….The location of Silver Bird was always a secret, of course. Theo and Neo kept their whereabouts hidden as well. It was the post-apocalyptic world they lived in, and the people trying to solve it were the ones most persecuted.……….Then, less than a day later, they encountered a meteor field. Neo opened up a hologram window to see what was outside. The ship stopped, and there was a wheel in outer space before him with transparent walls. When the ship docked, he stepped into its artificial gravity and looked at the stars under his feet.………. They walked up next to him. “See this field? This is what it left of Atlas, the home of our great race. You think you have no home? I have none, either. All that is left is the great, insensible tomb of Zero. I saw its destruction with my own eyes. I have no more sense of self to live for.”……….There were footsteps. “Theo,” said a man. Silver Bird. He walked up to them and, upon stopping, summed up Neo in once nod. “Why now? He’s not ready yet.”……….“What? But you’re wise.”……….“I’m not wise because I’m immortal but because I made mistakes. Theo’s made many. He just has less time to make up for them. Go home now.”……….And that was that. Theo put his arm around Neo and brought him back home. “I like this better than last time,” said father to son. - So that last line was referencing another flash-fiction write-off with Theo in it. That one was horrible. Also, I will reveal that at least one of these characters will be involved in an upcoming supersized epic that I will be releasing next year on my blog called The Adventures of Mary. You will read it because it will be awesome and fun. 24601
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HENRY WAS SHIFTING THROUGH OLD STUFF. Old old stuff. It was so strange to look back on. He was eighty-nine, so his high school memories seemed like an eternity ago, and yet like it was only yesterday. Surreality, the strange serendipity of looking at the things that looked like they were written by another person, yet he could feel that young man inside himself. This was the young man who, in third grade, wrote terrible letters and random doodles all over his schoolwork, and in eighth grade still had a scrawling handwriting that seemed nothing like his own but was filled with familiar ideas...........Then he encountered the gold mine, his high school papers. He looked them over, read every single one. These were from when he was discovering who he was, finding out what he believed in and what he stood for in this world. Even then he was still at the beginning, but at least it was a beginning. These were the manuscripts for the pilot episode of his life...........But they were more than that. In spite of being a wealth of knowledge documenting his early sense of wisdom, there were stories behind each paper and each note. He found a notebook with a handwriting he now recognized as his own detailing his observations on “Beowulf”, and another with notes he took for Mrs. Peterson’s Biology class. He got into an argument with someone at that time over how notes should be taken. There was also an essay about Theodore Roosevelt’s “New Nationalism”. Henry could still remember what other people had to say about it, and friends he had in that class...........They were filled with memories. Some painful, some beautiful. But they were only memories now. He remembered being sad knowing just how inevitable that was...........He put down his old, old stuff. How was it that he was a man with thin white hair now? He had become so used to being an adult. It was almost unthinkable that he was once a teenager...........“How’s your studying?” asked his wife, Josephine. She entered his office with a loaf of bread that she had cooked...........“I don’t think I want to study,” said Henry. “Younger minds can figure out this political drama. You know what I think I want to do? I want to find my friends from high school. I haven’t seen any of them in over thirty years.”..........“Are you sure you can do that?”..........“The doctors say I have a month to live. What else do I have to live for? I want my old friends there with me when I die. The ones who knew me when I was a child.” He got up and grabbed his cane. Josephine helped him along. They discussed the matter more as they walked through the house and they came to the conclusion that they were going to go through with it...........So Henry made a few calls. One was to his dear friend Rob, his best friend in high school. After some digging, Henry managed to find his letterman Jacket and met Rob at his house, all the way back to his home town...........Rob lived next to the cemetery...........As it turned out, Rob took the initiative to make a few calls of his own and invite other high school friends, including Emma, who was once a cheerleader, and Agatha, whom Henry had once dated. He blushed to see her. There was also his football friend Randall...........“This is such an unexpected surprise!” said Henry. He counted heads. There were four of his friends. “Where’s Dave and Gerald?”..........“They passed away,” said Rob. There was silence. Rob tapped his foot...........“Oh,” said Henry. Those two, Rob, and himself had been the best of friends. They were inseparable. They were always there for each other. They went to each other’s birthday parties, had meals at each other’s houses. They were family, man – family. “I wish I could have been there for them.”..........So they spent the afternoon eating the stale food associated with old people and enjoying themselves in the pale pastel colors of Rob’s living room. They talked about life, how far they had come in the last thirty years, their grandchildren, and what they were doing now, only to find that nobody had been doing anything. Emma and Agatha left, leaving just the men to hold counsel among themselves...........“Show me where they’re buried,” said Henry...........They left Robs house and visited the cemetery. Rob crossed a hill and found their friends’ gravestones. They weren’t too far off from the place where Henry’s parents were buried. They stood there in silence, and then fell to his knees, where he bowed his head in prayer for a long, long time in memory of his old, old friends...........“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. Now there’s only two of us left,” said Henry...........“I’m here,” said Randall. “It don’t matter that I didn’t eat with your folks. I’m still your friend.”..........“Rob, Randall,” said Henry, “I want to spend as much time as I can with you before I go. Will you be there for my funeral?”..........“Yes,” said Rob. “Henry, I really miss you. I have other promises to keep. Do you remember those things we said we’d do, but we never did them?”..........“I do.”..........“Dave and Gerald aren’t around anymore to complete it, but Randall can help.”..........It wasn’t the same Randall wasn’t part of those times when the four had gone camping together and dared to share their dreams.. Yet, it was better than nothing. “Yes, I would like that very much.”..........He bowed his head one last time to Dave and Gerald’s graves. He had promises to keep, to them, to Rob, to himself, to his parents, to God. Even at this late hour, it was still necessary for him to remember who he was. Even now, a child...........And so it was that the beginning was the end. 24601
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The air felt heavier in my lungs at night, like I was breathing in a bog. Even though it had been only two months since life had become like this, I still felt myself doubling over, unadjusted to the change in the environment. It had only been such a short time, two months, but forever it had felt like it had been this way. With conveniences so long accustomed to rendered useless, life had become a burden. Nights would find me open eyed in the kitchen, not needing the rest I almost ached for in the day. A shadow by sunlight and a ghost by the stars I was, gazing emptily out the window over the dish filled sink. The moon hung full over the calm ocean, its pale light rippling the sand from here to there with shadow. As the waves broke on the flooded sands, I felt the water underneath my feet, seeping up through the tile. The tides were the highest they had been since the hurricane, the groundwater rising into the house. I could feel it just under my feet, a miserable reminder of what this place had been through. I just wanted it to pull away, all in one receding wave; I could not rebuild with a wet foundation, and wanted nothing more than to be dry.When one stares long enough, their tired eyes play tricks on them. I had been tired for a long time, and my eyes were beginning to see shapes in the sand. In the black ocean against the dark sky, something was out there on the horizon. Leaning over the dishes to get a glimpse, I was certain that there was someone out there. Walking along the shoreline, there was a silhouetted figure, bending over with every occasional step. Letting myself down, my interest had awaken me from the daze I had been, as I stared out there, wondering who could it be.***My run along the beach led to a Toa of Earth, picking masks from the sand. He had come from the ocean, his skiff nearly invisible on a sandbar in the mild surf. Picking up the masks like seashells, insouciantly adding them to a pile, while I looked on, revolted. Hundreds of masks had laid right in front of my house, the sea spewing back what it had taken from the island, and I had been completely oblivious to it. “What are you doing?” I asked the Toa. “Leave them alone!”“I’m collecting them,” he replied simply; either he did not know these were the masks of my brothers and sisters, or was apathetic to my cries.“The sea takes the extraordinary and leaves the rest to be,” I quoted. “Let them rest in peace!” I grew angry when he kept collecting, ignorant of my demand. “These masks came to me,” he informed, “So what should I not take what is given? As tragic as it may have been for what happened to these Matoran, the island does not need these masks anymore. You would collect them yourself eventually, but what would you do with them? Maybe someone somewhere else needs them.” I cocked my head towards the moon, thinking on that. Letting them back to sea would be honoring their memory, but there was no arguing this with him. He was going to win this argument, no matter what I did or said. “Your island needs healing,” the Toa said, pushing a toe through the sand. I cast my eyes back to the shack I had come from, seeing ruins where a fine house had once been. The dunes were swept away to reveal a porch in shambles, the wood warped by the tides that had rushed forward in the floods. I winced at the sight of it, hurt by my own apathy. I had done nothing but let whatever dignity I had left deteriorate, and now my apathy was breaking me to pieces. “Maybe you need it too,” he added, placing a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. Looking me in the eyes, he could see the echoes of the pain as I remembered the storm. “Leave here,” he advised. “Go where your mind will be at peace. Let me take care of the land, so one day it will be fit to live on again” “How do you know what is right for here?” I demanded. “Stabbing a wound will not make it heal,” he countered. “Staying here will only make it worse for you. Leave. I will bring to this island what you won’t expect, and that’ll make it all the more interesting if you ever return.”“Where would I go?”“There is a meadow, far inland,” he explained, pointing beyond my house. “The woods will lead you there. The path may wind and fork, but trust me, it all goes to the same place.” “And you swear to…?”“I will help this island as best to my ability,” he nodded, a grim smile on his face. “Now go. Take what you have left and go. There’s people in the meadow, and trust me, it’ll do better to have company there than to spend the winter here alone.” I nodded, bidding him farewell. As I regarded the dark sky beyond my home, I felt the breeze tickling my neck, the quiet calling of winter. The woods beyond the island were dark, and I would spend many days in there before I waded through the grasses. I didn’t want to leave, to sever the connection between myself and the island. You can only appreciate this place once you leave, I thought grimly, as I followed the darkness to where I solid ground lay. ****A work that took a few weeks, based off of a dream and the "Pathfinding" Theme of the Fortnightly Flash Contest. I'm a bit out of practice, so feel free to tear apart.
