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i think ive been up since two or something writing this because inspiration just sorta hit me and now its fo in da moanin and i'm zonin' they say i'm posessed it's an omen anyways here have thing -------------------------------------- "You're up, kid. Show them how it's done." No need to tell me twice, I think, my only vocalization a grunt as my begins to play, and I start forwards, heeding it's call. Unlike the high-energy rap/country mix (that was a thing?) that my opponent had chosen, mine was simple, calm, and soothing. Catered more to easing my nerves than firing me up. The jitters were bad enough, this was my debut here. No need to tack on extra buzz to burn myself out with. Save that for when it becomes another day at the office. My face is decidedly poker as I enter the stage itself, jaw tightening in something that probably resembled apprehension just as much as it seriousness. Crazy how full it already is, I marvel, eyes darting to and fro about the contents of the small (but not really) arena, before finally settling upon those eight walls of six-foot high plastic-coated steel cage. Usually it was still a bit sparse this early on in the card. But really, that didn't matter. I can't let the pressure get to me here. Not now. I've come too far. Trained too hard, sunk too much time and effort to even consider turning back from here. Don't get the wrong idea, though. No self-respecting fighter of any caliber would go so far as to actually voluntarily back down from a fight, on the day of no less. No, what I meant was that I could not-- WOULD not, allow myself to perform at anything but my best and give anything less than my all. While I'm busy making these vows, I suddenly found myself in front of the Cut man and one of the refs. Athletic Commision staff making the final bits of physical preparation for me as make my own in my head, about to march to war. My shirt comes off, revealing a lithe, somewhat muscular but not exactly big physique-- not that I have any care in the world how aesthetic my body was at the moment. Context is everything, after all. My gloves get a quick tape job around the wrists--Blue, same as my corner. Did that mean I was the underdog here? I couldn't remember, and decide not to waste time worrying over it even as the ref applies vaseline to key areas on my face--reducing their chance of becoming nasty cuts on a grazing blow from a glove. Heavy on the borws and nose, that made sense. Where was I? Helpfully, the ref points me towards the cage's open door. I nod my thanks and in spite of myself, grin. That's one answer. As I make those three normally space yet simultaneously massive steps, I remind myself of one important fact. I didn't come here to worry about whether or not some random people were under the impression that I was going to lose. In fact, I came to do just the opposite. I greet the canvas with a hearty stomp, and its light springyness welcomes me cordially as I begin to circle, getting a feel for the unique sensation of soft spring under the balls of my feet. The mats they use in an octagon are hard to replicate the feeling of, and hey, getting familiar with your terrain is never a downside. I stop in front of my corner, bringing it to a rest, and watch the announcer take the center of the octagon. Then the cage door closes. Then the lights hit. Ooooh boy. The pressure is here, people. Thankfully I can keep my outward composure, but even as the announcer screams our names into the microphone with wicked enthusiasm, I feel my heart begin to pump and my legs go heavy. As the referee draws us together and does the usual "we've been over the rules, obey my commands at all times, fight a good clean fight" deal, I can see him staring straight into me with hard, unforgiving brown eyes. Sizing me up. And I knew that even through all the pressure I was feeling in that moment, I was doing the exact same to him. Sizing him up. Planning. We touch gloves at the ref's prompt and go back to our corners, his eyes never leaving me and mine him. He was about my height, but a bit more sturdily built. If I remembered right, there was no one area he truly excelled at, but he could do everything pretty well and had the guts to get after it with wild abandon. Combination like that suits me just fine The ref points to me "Are you ready?" I nod. To my opponent. "Are you ready?" He nods. A clap followed by a sharp chop downward. "LET'S GET IT ON!" We both advance, meeting eachother in the center and beginning to circle, back and forth, feeling eachother out. My head sways back and forth as I bounce on the balls of my feet in my stance. Not exaggeratedly so, of course, that'll just throw you off balance, but just enough to make it a more difficult target for him to hit. My guard is disciplined and high, right hand always near my chin and left out further, ready to parry, gauge range, be the leader in the dance. After what feels like an eternity of this, I elect to make the first move, ficking a probing jab towards his face. He's aware and parries it with his rear hand, stepping in and slamming a lead left hook into my guarding forearm in return an instant later. Not to be outdone, I counter that with a low kick, which unfortunately isn't the type that would do serious damage right away due to the distance, but still, my shin smacks into his newly presented thigh with enough force to make him think twice. And that's got the scales tipped in my favor. I move laterally a little bit, cutting angles left and right and every way in between, trying to work out a good one for an attack, but the other man is diligent and keeps track of me all the while, typically cutting me off and slowly inching me to the fence, peppering me with jabs and one-twos of his own to keep my defenses busy. "Combinations kid, combinations! Keep working that leg!" my coach calls, and nod mentally. It's a good way to go. I circle right, then jerk left and duck as he gets impatient and wings a big overhand right that whiffs over the top of my head. Coincidentally, I had also found my window of oppurtunity. He re-orients himself as quick as he can in my direction, but by that time I've already pounced upon him with a jab that catches him square in the nose, interrupting his thought processes just in time for the following cross, picture perfect with all the straightness and hip rotation a man could ever ask for, to come crashing home into his chin, wobbling his legs and putting him, in scientific terms, "On Queer Street." But I don't let up here. No, I don't even pause to admire my handiwork mid-combination. Even as his knees buckle from the shot before and his hands cover his face to avoid any further rattling, my left hand stabs upwards and into his right side-- a shovel hook, it's called, and straight into the liver. His eyes fairly bug and he, a guy known to be tough and gutsy as any of them, is visibly wincing and fighting to not crumple right there. A testament as fine as any to how much a good hit to the liver hurts. At this point, it almost seems like the beautiful doozy of the leg kick that finishes off the particular combination I was throwing is a tacked-on afterthought, despite the frankly excellent technique involved. The lead foot is turned outside, drawing the massive rotational power hips into it, the guard stays on point throughout even though it isn't even necessary, the shin collides mightly with the meat of my opponents thigh... everything was done right. A shame I couldn't always throw it that well. I quickly reset my stance as he begins to circle out to my left, attempting to escape the onslaught. I am disciplined in my pursuit of the finish, but no less ruthless because of it. I step my lead foot outward, squaring up to cut his movement off, and uncork a merciless lead left hook of my own onto him. His hands come up, but a tad too late, and the powerful blow drills through and hits, albeit unclean. In a panic, he tries the other way out, hoping that I would try and chase after him. I have no need. My foot twists outward a smidgen once more, and with practiced fluidity, the all too terribly tough right shinbone of mine scythes upwards and cracks him straight in the dome, removing him from his consciousness and sending him crumpling, limp like a ragdoll, onto the canvas. Lights out. No doubt about it. I raise my hands even as the ref leaps in to wave the fight's official closure, and all at once a wave of sound sweeps me away as I suddenly realize Oh Holy ###### I just got a First-Round Headkick Knockout in my debut is this real? It all took a grand total of three minutes and seventeen seconds. I walk over to the other man, unable to help the smile plastered upon my face as he comes to, and help him up as we trade small well-wishes, "good job"s, "great fight"s and the like. Violent though they may be, these were called combat sports for a reason. I always respect my opponents, in victory, and in defeat. Besides, I don't think I have it in me to be angry or nasty at anything right now. All that pressure melting away has left me light as a feather. -------------------------------------------------------- So yeah leave feedback and heartfelt questions as to why here praise yeezy
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OKAY, quick backstory. A few months ago, I bought the book Wonderbook: The Illustrated Guide to Creating Imaginative Fiction (I strongly recommend it for anyone wishing to write any kind of fiction), and there was an assignment to write something based around an image. And what resulted, I came to realize tonight, seemed more like it had come from a prolonged period of wisdom from Sumiki's Dad. Anywho, here is a short story (un)worthy of Dalí and Sumiki's Dad: Dr. Stainamere's Weltzday Dr. Stainamere opened the second cage, hoping that he would have more luck than he had with the first one. Yes, he had forgiven Intensity for biting his finger as he’d retrieved her, but he did not think he would be as lenient if Fervor also bit him. Especially because he preferred Fervor over Intensity, but he would never tell the two of them. Luckily, Fervor leaped from the comically small swing inside the cage and onto his extended palm. His claws dug into Dr. Stainameres’ open palm, and he winced slightly; he had always found it funny that even though he had surrounded himself by parrots, cockatoos, and other birds for over three centuries now, he still got hurt by their seemingly benign feet. He moved Fervor from his hand to his shoulder, made sure that both Fervor and Intensity were comfortably holding on to his dragon-hide coat, and then left the room. As he walked down the narrow steps, he gave a long sigh at remembering that it was the twenty-fourth day of the month; this meant that his schedule was completely booked. Not only would he have to train Fervor and Intensity to recite three jokes about pine trees, but he also had to clean out the trash dispensary, dance to the Gods of Sorrow for a good showing of elks in the neighbouring Laundry Woods, write two symphonies composed underwater, and run through the list of candidates for the post of Town Crier. It was this last assignment that he dreaded the most, as many of the candidates who showed up every twenty-fourth day of the month were either grossly under qualified, or simply had no concept of what it really meant to be Town Crier. Dr. Stainamere finally reached his study, and pushed aside the soap statues of satyrs and merpeople that littered the room at the moment. He remembered the room was cluttered, but he could not believe he had let it become so filled up that he had to push statues away to open up a path across the study. The smell of lilacs and lead was too strong however, so he decided to get rid of a few of the statues right there and then; yes, they were beautiful works of art he had enjoyed carving out, but the smell of the soap was too strong for him to think rationally. He opened up one of the triangular windows and looked down. He often forgot that the studio was on the fifty-seventh floor of the Building of Wretchedness, but alas, he noticed himself forgetting many things recently. He made a mental note to take extract of pumice to remedy such a malady, then realized he’d probably forget the thought as soon as he walked out of the study. He made the mental note anyway. “Ah, there you are!” he exclaimed, though whether he was talking to himself or to Fervor and Intensity was unclear. His billowing dragon hide coat turned with him as he began to walk towards the quartz desk, upon which lay three tomes, one of them open. The three books were always necessary for the selection of the Town Crier; The History of Our Fabulous Nation because it listed the past of their idyllic country, Town Criers and their Many Uses in case the Town Crier in question finally became expendable, and The Act Of Cryeying which was, of course, the how-to guide that any aspiring Town Crier had to have had completely memorized if they ever hoped to achieve the prestigious position. The books were worn, and the pages were so creased and torn that it looked as if they would come apart if someone as much as lifted them from the table. However, this was no concern of Dr. Stainamere’s, who was only thinking about getting the interviews done with so that he could move on to reciting the three jokes about pine trees. He snatched the tomes from the desk and strode towards the door a bit quicker, now that he noticed that the sun was already setting. The day was about to begin, and when it did he’d better be by his post or the Ministry would have his head. Finally Dr. Stainamere reached the lowest room of the building, and stood behind the grand and ornate paper-mache door. The candy gems that decorated the door glinted off the dying rays of sunlight, and Dr. Stainamere thought to himself that, if ever his schedule allowed it, he might perhaps one day come down to this room and simply admire the beautiful door. Today was not one of those days, however, and as he composed himself to greet the candidates, the ceremonial halo customary of the Town Crier selection process descended upon his head until it stayed floating above his head, anchored to his temple by the unknown and misunderstood forces of our universe that were, are, and will be ever so present. Dr. Stainamere put his bruised palm on the door and pushed, and as he entered he was greeted by an odd sight. There was only one candidate present! The candidate was large, looking like a fish out of the water, though his fins extended to become bat-like wings. He had no legs, instead using his short and stubby tail to jump across the room. His polka-dot hide of red and white briefly distracted Dr. Stainamere even more, but finally he regained his senses and got on with the interview. “So…” he began, briefly forgetting the correct words to begin the rite. “You have come here, upon the House of the Ministry, for the purpose of becoming our next Town Crier. Are you aware of what this position entails?” “Yes, sir, I am,” replied the candidate, following the scrip that so many other candidates had followed for eons past. “Are you willing to devote your every thought, your every action, your every soul to this position?” asked Dr. Stainamere, with a hint of boredom in his voice that he did not bother to hide. “Yes, sir, I am.” “In that case, I ask now that you deliver the ceremonious chant for the Witnesses.” At these words, the candidate shifted slightly to get himself straightened out, extended his wings which now covered the entire expanse of the room lengthwise, and began to sing. With his hand clasped over his mouth, Dr. Stainamere stood back and enjoyed the singing while Fervor and Intensity began the process of judging. The song selected by this specific candidate was about a beautiful woman, poor but pure of heart, who happened one day to be spurred by the Goddesses Chance and Fate to meet a young man who was to be wed to another. They fell in deep and romantic love by the Volcanoes of Garn, the song told. But, The Stag of Destiny decided that this could not be, and sent upon them a boy from the town who discovered them and, being young and innocent, understood not what had happened and reported them to the town elders. The town elders, very clearly distraught, sent for the young man to be thrown into the volcano as per laws in the town, and the young woman was taken by her family and thrust into the nunnery run by the Sisters of the Swamp, never to be seen or heard from again except for nine months afterwards when the family received a crying and fragile basket by their doorstep, along with a note that, according to the song, simply read: ‘Love her as you could never love me.’ Slowly, the candidate’s wings receded as the dying last notes left his gills. He stood there, anxiously looking at Dr. Stainamere and at Fervor and Intensity. “Yes, we find this story pleasing. It has pierced into our souls and we commend you, candidate,” they both said in unison. They ruffled their multicolored feathers a bit, and then stood still and silent once again. Dr. Stainamere looked at the candidate and produced a small smile. “Congratulations, then, Town Crier. We thank you for all your future services.” At the mention of these words, the three tomes opened up and began to float around the candidate, as the printed words floated off the pages and began to wash over the candidate. He stayed completely still as the pores on his body imbibed the ink. Finally, when enough of the printed liquid knowledge had permeated through his being, the remaining ink floated back into the open and empty pages of the books, and they returned to Dr. Stainameres’ hand. Then, in a flash of light, the new Town Crier was gone, ready to begin his month-long job until he was supplanted by a new Town Crier, as was customary. Fervor and Intensity had already fallen asleep, and Dr. Stainamere knew that before he continued with his day he’d have to leave them both in their cages. He turned and was met by the calendar on the wall. He looked at it and noticed how it pointed out that only a few hours of the day had passed on this Weltzday, the twenty-fourth day of the month. He sighed and proceeded up the stairs. Thoughts? Comments? Criticisms? Concerns (for my sanity)?
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Gali walked with her arms spread to either side, caressing each branch and leaf and frond with her fingertips. Kopaka followed behind her, keeping his arms to himself and holding his sword close. "I can think of nothing I ever had to do as a Toa," said Gali, "that was more difficult to do than unleashing the Bohrok on our island." "It wasn't for us to choose." Gali stopped and Kopaka tensed. He relaxed as Gali kneeled and reached out slowly to a small beast, some kind of winged rodent. Kopaka stepped around her and took the lead. "Now Mata Nui is beautiful and alive once more," said Gali, standing up, and the creature scurried away. She hastened after Kopaka. "We left Mata Nui a long time ago." "And now we have come home, brother. " "It's changed too much." Kopaka shook his head. "This isn't our home." The Toa emerged from the trees onto a promontory overlooking a deep valley. The land fell away steeply and far, until the ground below faded in clouds of mist. Vegetation sprang up out of the sand blown in by the years. Trees and brush and grass turned the ground green and billowed with the wind. But at intervals, where the sand and verdure became sparse, a glimpse of a sheet of rusted metal revealed the true nature of this strange land hidden beneath its lush facade. Gali watched a flock of Taku nestled together in a high tree far below. Kopaka focused his telescopic eye on a Burnak devouring an unsuspecting Jungle Fox. He looked away. "This used to be Naho Bay," Gali said. "The falls were probably there"--she pointed--"and the village would have been there"--she pointed. "In the gardens below, the sea was full, and alive--there were Ruki and Takea and seaweed and coral and underwater caves. My people lived here and swam here for thousands of years. I lived here less than one. And still I call it home, Kopaka. My first memories were walking these beaches and swimming these waters." She spread out her hands. "This is where it all began. Our battle started here. We fought the Makuta here for the first time, before we knew he had a name, before we knew there were Toa who came before us. We saved the Rahi from his control and faced him, and we thought we destroyed him." "We thought that many times." Gali sighed. "And every time, we were wrong." Kopaka shrugged. "The battle didn't start here. It started in Metru Nui long before us. Maybe before that." "That was a different battle. One that the Toa and Mata Nui lost. The Makuta won for a time. This island is where our battle began. Together, we won it. The shadows we all fought for so long died here, in these eyes." She peered down into the valley. "We won this battle. . . ." "The question is," said Kopaka, "was it the last? Was it the end of the shadows?" Gali looked at him over her shoulder. "No," she said. They looked at each other a moment longer. Kopaka turned to follow the rim of the valley. "Come. Let's finish our mission." "Yes, of course. . . ." * * * The Great Coliseum lay in ruin. Three spires were fallen in different directions. The fourth had vanished into scattered rubble. The stands and walls were collapsed, in some places crumbled to powder. In the Coliseum's place, a jagged mountain of rock loomed into the sky, towering above the Great City. It was a souvenir left by the moon that had killed the Makuta who had once been guardian over the island. "We killed an evil-bad Makuta with an ever-big rock, and all we got was a smaller ever-big rock that's pointier and ever-ugly?" Onua clapped dust off his hands and smiled at Lewa, who was standing nearby on a pile of debris and frowning up at the grim steeple. Somehow, Lewa always focused on the worst side of things, and made it into something comical. "We won a lot more than that, brother," Onua said. "Oh, that's right, how could I quick-forget!" Lewa gave his Kanohi an overdramatized slap. "We won the big happy-prize! We get to here-stay with a bunch of wild-mad Rahi-people!" Onua frowned. He understood his brother's feelings. Migrating from Mata Nui to Metru Nui with the Matoran had been one thing. Onua remembered it as a time of stress and confusion. Their unity had seen them through then, but a sense of destiny, a feeling that they were returning home, had made it easier. Leaving the Matoran Universe and everything they had ever known behind them, to live in a strange land none of them had ever even dreamed could exist, was much, much harder. Five years had passed since the Falling, and they were still struggling to cope. "It is nice to be back in Metru Nui again," he admitted aloud. "True-said, brother." "Give me a hand with this protoblock, would you?" Onua grunted. "It's 'ever-heavy.'" "I thought you were the power-strong one," Lewa gibed. Lewa flew to his side and together they heaved the brick into the airship. They went about their work in silence for a while, collecting any undamaged materials they could salvage from fallen buildings. They had already rummaged through the ruins of Le-Metru, Ko-Metru, and Onu-Metru, and now they were scouring Po-Metru. When they had successfully loaded a life-size stone carving of a Kikanalo on the airship, Lewa swept his brow with his hand and said, "I'm beat-tired! Are we done in this dry-bald wasteland yet?" "Not yet. We should check the protodermis warehouses first." "Then can we quick-take a rest-break? We've been hard-working all day!" Onua agreed to this. He lay down on a bed of rubble while Lewa perched on a broken Gukko statue beside him. Onua looked up at the sky, where whatever artificial light had given them their sun had died into a flickering, dusk-like glow. That made it difficult to see what they were doing without Ruru, but on the bright side, it meant they didn't have to work in the heat of beating daylight. "Hard to believe this trash heap used to be our home," he sighed. "And now we live in a mystery-land of know-nothingness," said Lewa. "We'll get used to it." "In the old-age, when we were out brave-fighting and getting in ever-trouble, no matter the dark-luck, I could dream-think of the stories we used to tell in Le-Koro, like the 'Far-Wanderer.'" "Is this anything like the one about the three Matoran and the Manas and the--" Lewa whistled and laughed and shook his head. "No, brother, not a chuckle-good humor-tale! The Far-Wanderer was a tree-brother who vast-explored far-away lands. He got into risk-hazards and had many heart-thrilling adventures, but he always home-came to Le-Koro at the story-end." Lewa's eyes became hazy and distant. "And I used to dream-think . . . wherever I far-wandered, whatever the trouble-bad, as long as I could home-come to Le-Koro, everything was happy-fine." He rocked back and forth and smiled. "I had to home-come to Le-Koro. I couldn't fall-die, because I had to home-come to Le-Koro. No matter what, I just couldn't fall-die." He closed his eyes and frowned. "Now Le-Koro is ever-gone . . . there's no heart-home to home-come to, not anywhere." "I miss the island, too," said Onua. "But it's the people that matter, and we'll always have them to go home to, won't we?" "Well true-said." Onua sat up and leaned on the Gukko statue, tilting his head back to look at Lewa. "We've been through a lot together, brother. You and me, the team, our people. We've been through dark times. That's over now. I don't know where we're going now, but it's like Turaga Whenua used to tell me. The future is like a tunnel--you may not be able to see far ahead of you, but as long as you keep going, you will end up in a better place." Onua put his hand on Lewa's shoulder. "As long as we stay together, we can handle anything Spherus Magna throws at us." Lewa's gaze raked over the desolation of Po-Metru. Onua looked over his shoulder and frowned at it. "Quick-come, then," said Lewa, leaping up with a resolute smile on his mask. "Let's get back to hard-work." * * * Tahu stood with Turaga Vakama inside the gates of the Coliseum, at the foot of the towering moonrock. "This is where the Makuta cast Mata Nui into slumber," said Tahu. "This is where you and the other Turaga defeated him, and where you defeated Sidorak and Roodaka and the Visorak horde. This is where you saved the Vahi. The scene of all our greatest victories, destroyed." "Destroyed for our greatest victory yet, lest you forget," said Vakama. "The Great Spirit did what he had to do to save Spherus Magna. Perhaps it was the right time for what we knew as our world to come to its end." "So we could live in a world where we do not belong? A world unprepared for our coming? So we could share the homes of a people who do not want us here?" "You are their hero, Toa Tahu," said Vakama. "They will not soon forget that." "It's a lot to ask of them, even if I did help save their lives." "It is a big change for them," Vakama agreed. "It is a big change for us all. None of us chose this path, but we must all cope with it now." "But we were never meant to live there, Turaga. The very Great Beings who created us wanted to keep us out if it. They tried to destroy us." "And yet the Great Spirit, whom they created to reunite the world, their broken world, was the one who saved Spherus Magna. He saved it for the people who lived there, as well as his own. I do not know about you, Toa, but I have more faith in a hero like that, and the destiny he gave us, than in any creator, no matter how powerful they are nor how knowing they claim to be." They moved on, strolling in circles around the broken field of the Coliseum. "We've never dealt with anything like this," said Tahu. "We have always had some darkness to defeat, some enemy to stop, but this is so different from anything we have ever had to do." "You are more than the leader of a team now, Toa Tahu. You and your brothers are the leaders of a new world in its infancy." "There have been many times when we could hardly keep ourselves together. The people of our old universe couldn't even get along. How can we keep two universes united?" "I do not know all the answers to your questions." Vakama sighed, pulling thoughtfully at the chin of his mask. "Destiny has changed. Once we looked to the Great Spirit to guide us. Now he is more difficult to see. Our world has become more complicated." He turned to Tahu and twitched a finger. "Come here." Tahu kneeled beside the Turaga. "Yes?" "Look back on all the times when you have come to me in the past, Toa, when your mind was troubled with doubts for the things that had to be done. Think how hopeless things seemed then. Every time you faced one challenge, a newer, and harder one would take its place. That is the way of things, it seems. But listen to me. Destiny has always been ours to carve. It is our choices, and the things we do, that decide it, nothing else." He shrugged. "None of us expected what has happened, and yet I believe as time passes we will find we were better prepared to face the future than we realized. The Great Spirit is still with us. Times have changed and they will change again, but the heart of our people will not. You will see, Toa. We will have a say yet in what comes next." Vakama nodded his head once, twice, thrice, and turned and hobbled on again. Tahu followed. * * * So while everyone else is off gathering building materials and studying geology and taking nostalgic strolls down memory lane, I'm running back and forth across an endless desert, thought Pohatu. Scenery that all looked the same whizzed past in blurs that all looked the same as he sped across the desert at full speed. He was returning from the newly founded city of Matero with his precious package strapped securely to his back In a deep, gravelly voice that didn't sound nearly as much like Vakama as Pohatu liked to think it did, he said, "You are the fastest and the most gullible. You are the obvious choice to do this most biggest, most important, most boring task that nobody else wants to do." He imitated Tahu next. "You know it's not safe in Matero. There have been too many attempts to steal it already, and even though we kicked each sorry rear that tried it, we must go to the exaggerated and unnecessary lengths of burying one of the most powerful artifacts in all the universe someplace where we'll never be able to get at it again." Pohatu's voice rose shrilly. "We must all do our part, brother, because I'm the goody-goody conscience of the team, something about unity and duty and destiny, something weepy and dramatic about hope!" Gali was the worst of his imitations. He made his voice airy. "Go-run wind-fly-quick with-having ever-speed, good-great-noble Toa-hero-warrior-guy!" He made his voice stiff. "Get your rear to Matero before I freeze you where you stand with my icy eyes because I'm so cool I'm frigid." He made his voice very deep. "Ummm, what're we talkin' about?" Pohatu's hearty laughter echoed behind him into the desert. * * * The months crawled by, until at last, the new Kini-Nui was finished. Gali and Kopaka had scouted out the location of the original Kini-Nui, above the entrance to Mangaia, beneath which still lay the abandoned Maze of Shadows and the tunnels that descended to Metru Nui. Lewa and Onua had been able to salvage a wide variety of materials, not only allowing them to rebuild the temple itself exactly as they remembered it, but also leaving plenty left over to work with in the engineering of defenses. By design, it resembled the 777 Steps of Voya-Nui. Chamber after tunnel after tunnel after chamber, armed with traps and tests and puzzled to impede thieves, descended into the Maze of Shadows, where any thief who had somehow made it this far still had to face the almost impossible challenge of navigating the maze to its heart, where one final security measure protected the innermost vault. All entrances from below had been collapsed or blocked or otherwise closed at regular intervals, leaving the Kini-Nui as the only possible point of access. Now, the package had been placed within and the traps had been set, and the Kini-Nui was waiting to be sealed. All that wanted now was the arrival of the volunteer who would dwell in Mangaia as the guardian of the universe's most prized artifact. Since before construction had started, finding this volunteer had been Takanuva's task. The six Toa Nuva, together with the six Turaga, waited atop the temple. "You didn't forget to activate the chutes in the third chamber?" Tahu checked. "True-certain, sir Toa-Leader," said Lewa. "And the furnace in the fourth chamber is ready?" "Check," said Onua. "And the--" "Calm yourself, brother," Gali interrupting, chortling. "Nothing has been forgotten. Every smallest detail has been carefully prepared. We are ready." Vakama hobbled between the two Toa. "You have all worked long and hard for this moment, and naturally, we are all nervous," said Vakama. "But there is nothing left to be done now other than the sealing of the temple, and for that, we have only Toa Takanuva to wait for." "And until then," said Nokama, "we have nothing to worry about. No precaution has been spared, and until the temple is sealed, we have the six of you here to guard its entrance. The Mask of Life will be safe now for all time." There was a moment of silence to appreciate those words. Inevitably, it was Lewa who broke it. "So deep-safe," Lewa added, "that even if the Makuta were to back-return from the old-bone, not even he could take-snatch it!" Pohatu groaned. "Please, brother, don't even joke. The Makuta has returned from the dead enough times." A moment later, Lewa cried, "Wind-flying sky-ship! Our brother is here-come!" Cheers erupted on the Kini-Nui, and whooping and shouting Lewa took to the air. He flew up to meet the approaching airship and flitted around it in playful circles. Moments later, before the airship had even come close to the ground, Lewa returned to the temple and landed beside his brothers wide-eyed and silent. "I--I quick-took a look-see in a window," Lewa stuttered, and in spite of further questions he said nothing more. But as they waited in suspense for the airship to land, a smile grew on Lewa's mask. Takanuva came first. He was greeted warmly and patiently, but he could sense the tense anticipation of his brothers and sister and elders. With a strange grin, he announced, "Well, you asked for a volunteer, and I've brought him. He's an old friend from my dimensional travels." He turned to the airship and called, "Come out, brother!" A tall, brawny figure clad in radiant white stepped out of the airship. Most of the Toa and Turaga stared in silent shock, or gasped out loud. Pohatu cursed, and Lewa nearly broke his mask laughing. "Friends," said Takanuva, "welcome the new guardian of the Mask of Life--Makuta Teridax." END * * * * * Unless you've skipped here to the end (in which case I refer you to the beginning of the story where you belong), you have just finished the first in a new series of short stories collectively entitled "The Tales of Matero," a series I am co-writing with two of the most horrible people on BZP (AKA two decent buds who can actually write kinda goodly). The purpose of these short stories is to usher in an epic we are currently working on getting written. Keep reading for another paragraph and I'll tell you a little bit about it. Almost there. Just a little further. The story is set some 100,000 years after the Fall, that is, the F.A.L.L., the "Foiling of the Antagonist via Lame Lunar-rock" (love you anyway, Greg). Mata-Nui has been gone for millennia, and even the Great Beings are gone, and the world has changed. In the city of Matero (Mat[a] + [At]ero, not to be confused with that beloved guy who died) a new hero will rise, and some stuff will happen, and people will do things, and there will be some ties to earth-shaking attempts at world conquest, and some memorable characters will make appearances and there will be drama and feels and lots of exciting literary devices and suchlike to engage your interest. So if you like stories and epics and drama and emotions and characters and awesomeness and all things BIONICLE, you may or may not enjoy our epic (we'll let you be the judge of that). And you may or may not want to keep an eye out for it (you can judge that, too), which may or may not be coming soon (unfortunately we reserve the right to be judges of that). tl;dr - You just read a 3,000 word epic, and you can't read two paragraphs? srsly? Vale
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The wind whipped into the compartment. Passengers screamed as papers ripped themselves out of their hands and briefcases and bags and hats tumbled along with the rushing air, joining tumbling books and empty cups and expensive fur stoles in a whirling dance. I shattered the remains of the window and heaved half my body through. An attendant grabbed me by the foot, but I kicked him in the face. The momentum propelled me out the window and I plunged downward through the sky. I slung the parachute over my back, fumbling with the harness while struggling to keep it from flying out of my grip. It worked itself free of one shoulder and I barely caught it before it absconded into the blue yonder. It probably would have been smarter to put this on before I had jumped through the window, but I might not have fit that way. Besides, I like to work on the fly. Or rather, on the fall. I managed to strap on the pack and pull the ripcord. As soon as I was descending at a safe speed and my heart rate had a chance to slow, the view of the city strangling the Seine was actually quite beautiful. I was right on course to land in a lovely little park, but the wind had other ideas and I descended on a church spire instead. I guess it was a spiritually uplifting experience. Apparently I had attracted a lot of attention, because a large crowd of people were pointing and shouting, but I couldn’t be sure because they shouted in French and pointed in French too, of course, and they might just have been admiring the architecture for all I knew. Pretty soon I started hearing sirens. I was surprised the sirens didn’t siren in French, but I guess you can’t have everything. Wait, is siren a verb? After the fire department got me down from the spire, the police started asking me questions. I tried to communicate yo no hablo francés by gesture, but that got us nowhere. I tried to translate his French—something, I thought, about passing harbors or possibly wine, and maybe something about a crazy, stupid derriere—but one year in high school Francais didn’t cut it. I was taken downtown, talked to someone who spoke English, I was asked if I had a passport, I said No, and all said and done I ended up in a cell. And as the French say, voilà! A holiday in Paris without having to pay for reservations. Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith
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Some practice writing I did whilst working on an RPG. I apologize dearly for any uncaught errors; I’m quite franky a terrible proofreader. The exposition is a bit light, but I tried to at least make it somewhat understandable for a non-DA fan. -------------------------------------------- The world, calm for a hundred years, lies on the brink of the Third Blight. The threat of extinction lingers in the air, and only a few can even sense death’s approach. This is the story of two experiences; a Morning with a sun and a Morning without, both dawning on Thedas alongside the menace of the Darkspawn. --- : ----- : --- : ----- : --- It was the morning, though there was no sun to do the telling. Deep below the earth, a group of heavily armored dwarven warriors marched through the Deep Roads. In the ancient days, these tunnels had been massive roads between the cities of the great empire. These warriors, however, were no representatives of a great empire. They were the scouts for its last surviving city – Orzammar. For many, it is a pleasing sight not to encounter ones enemies. Six hundred years before, the Darkspawn had risen from the tunnels beneath the earth to bring destruction to the world, starting with the dwarven kingdoms. Horrible, twisted creatures whose only goal seemed to be total annihilation of their enemies, they most certainly fell into that enemy category. Yet while on a normal day they flooded the tunnels, not one remained within on this day. “Something isn’t right about this.” The patrol leader said as she scanned over the area. “The spawn should be swarming these tunnels, and yet we haven’t seen a single one all day.” “Could they be planning an attack?” one of them asked. “Since when do Darkspawn actually plan?” asked another. “Since about a century ago.” Replied the one furthest to the back, grimly. The more formal nature of his armor, incorporating a cloth tabard and design elements foreign in appearance, marked him as a figure of some importance. “What are you suggesting, Warden?” asked the patrol leader. “So there are a few Darkspawn missing, but what does that matter?” The Grey Warden shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. This has been going on for well over a week. The only Darkspawn we’ve seen have been stragglers, but fiercer. Their direction has been too effective.” The patrol leader stared down the tunnels, before releasing a sigh. “You may be right, Warden. I can only pity those who are now on the topside, all of this considered.” The Warden nodded, as his thoughts raced. For centuries, they had been the ones who stood vigil against the Darkspawn. And when they rose to the surface, it was the Wardens who faced them in battle. Each of these Darkspawn surges – these Blights – had been met with heavy cost. And now, he feared that the Third lay on the horizon. --- : ----- : --- : ----- : --- It was morning, and the sun shone brightly. As its light pierced the highest Chantry window, it melted away the winter’s frosty coating, bringing in the dawn. There was a deathly silent in the holy place, with nary a soul present; neither man nor woman breathing, even in the private chambers adjoining the chapel. There was no sound present, and had not been for well over a year within the Chantry. The last sound to be made was that of blood dripping onto the floor, flowing from the numerous bodies which lay scattered about the room. Among them were folks from all walks of life – peasants seeking sanctuary, priests who helped tend to them, and a small number of armored Templar knights who had once protected them. Among them, also, were the scattered forms of those whom they had once failed to stand against; the enemy which they had faced. The doors to the Chantry opened, and into the building entered its first visitors in many years; three Grey Wardens, though much younger than their ally who marched in the Deep Roads. The first among them, a scruffy looking man clad in robes which bore the Warden’s griffon crest and clutching only a staff for a weapon (clearly the sign of a mage, for no other would be so bold as to move unarmored), knelt down almost immediately as he observed the scene. “Need we any more proof?” he asked. “Definitely Darkspawn work.” his nearer companion replied; this one, a dwarf, wearing armor and clutching a largish crossbow. “Just like the other villages. Lots of bodies, and completely untouched by rot.” “Hardly the most obvious sign here.” the mage replied, pointing to the foreign bodies which lay scattered amongst the refugees. While it was weapons marks which had mutilated the villagers, the twisted Darkspawn corpses were already a horrible sight. “There can be no doubt at this point; our dreams have proven right.” “Can we truly be sure?” the third questioned, as his armor reflected the light which pierced through the stained glass windows above. “We’re only thirteen miles from one of the Deep Roads entrances, and for one of the bigger ‘spawn to lead a group here…” The mage merely shook his head, as he stood back up. “Possible? Almost anything is, and if that were true, it would bring me no small comfort. But look at the signs… there were not that many Darkspawn. Even a village this small has enough Templars assigned for a body count to be much more visible than it is.” “We must face facts.” The dwarf said. “These are the same warnings that they had in the Anderfels before the beginning of the Second Blight. There is another one on the horizon.” There was an almost tangible feeling of silence which hung in the air. Eventually, the mage spoke up and said, “We’ll need to report this back to the commander as soon as possible, so they can prepare. No doubt there are other scouts, but we may be the only ones in this area.” “We can’t just leave their bodies rotting with the Darkspawn. They should be committed to the Maker.” The other human said. “Just doesn’t seem right.” The mage turned to the dwarf, who shrugged and said, “Not much for your topsider religions, but he’s right. Wouldn’t just leave a dwarf rotting here." With that said, the mage nodded, before saying, "What’s another fire compared to the days to come?” --- : ----- : --- : ----- : --- The three set out once again by midday, the funeral pyre reaching high into the sky behind them. And the Wardens, now more so than anybody else, knew that these oncoming years would be far from easy. All they could do was try to prepare. At the same time, the dwarven Warden returned from his travels as empty-handed as before. That very day, he addressed the assembly who led Orzammar, informing of them of what was most certainly to come. For as the surface prepared to fight, they would prepare to defend. For if humans and elves were to fall, then they would most certainly be next. -Toa Levacius Zehvor
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-Ozymandias- “Disillusioned, but determined, to complete my odyssey, I followed his corpse to its resting place in Alexandria. The night before returning to America, I wandered into the desert and ate a ball of hashish I'd been given in Tibet. The ensuing vision transformed me. Wading through powdered history, I heard dead kings walking underground, heard fanfares through human skulls. Alexander had merely resurrected an age of Pharaohs, their wisdom, truly immortal, now inspired me. What intellectual magnificence their system encouraged.. Ptolemy seeking the universe's pivot from his light-house at Pharos, Eratosthenes, measuring the world using only shadows… their greatest secrets entrusted to their servants, buried alive with them in sand-flooded chambers. Adopting Ramses the Second's Greek name and Alexander's free-booting style, I resolved to apply antiquity's teachings to today's world. Thus began my path to conquest… conquest not of men. But of evils that beset them. Today, that conquest becomes assured, in which your questioning assistance has proven invaluable. Do you comprehend the triumph which you have contributed, the secret glory that it affords? Do you understand my shame at so inadequate a reward?” -Alan Moore, Watchmen A single bitter tear drips down my cheek, falling to the polished stone floor with a half-hearted plop. I am unsure, my normally concrete determination unsettled by inklings of doubt. Has my will weakened so soon? Have I surrendered to uncertainty so quickly? The screens roar the news of an entire planet, urging me to hark everything they desperately yell, to observe the pixels they so desperately want me to see. To my right, a reporter yells over the sound of gunfire, to my left, a droning voice reads information concerning the social tumult of the all-important United States, even when their own country is in political turmoil. Turning from the screens, I observe the glass displays that line my Antarctic abode, filled with relics and artifacts whose very existence is unknown to the world. The centerpiece of my collection instantly attracts my eyes, its blade gleaming in the natural, soothing crimson light of fire. The sword of Alexander of Macedonia. Not only once the ruler of a sizeable portion of the world, but ruler of what most considered a controlled, orderly world. Yet it was not a perfect world. There was needless death, there was ego-driven war between his and other nations. For so many years, I worshiped that man. I thought of him as a god, whose history was the story of the world’s greatest and smartest man. I find myself incapable of worshiping anyone now, least of all myself. Me, a hero styled after Alexander the Great, my name the Greek name adopted by Ramses the Second. It was not so long ago that my body was controlled not by my mind, but my ego, which drove me to worthless and unimportant activities. It was during those years that I met Edward Blake. He was a brute of a man, but he said something to me that will always change me. He told me how I was, like the rest of this world, doomed to be ashes when the thermonuclear weaponry of this world’s nations descended upon the earth. He made me realize that I would not be left miraculously standing when others were little but cinders. It was then that I resolved to do what Alexander could not. It was then that I began to plan, to plot, to harden my heart. Now, the conclusion of my plan is at hand. Now, a masterstroke is about to be dealt onto an unsuspecting world. Now, the balance of the world is in my hands. Now, I sacrifice the lives of millions, for the lives of an entire world. * * * Silent, I watch the monitors as the reporters flounder with confusion at what has occurred. Beyond the microphone-holding bringers of news to millions, I see humans in agony. Crying, weeping and screaming obscenities to the skies, they walk the broken and shattered streets as if dazed, staring glass-eyed at the world around them. In the distance, I hear footsteps. Shutting the screens off, I turn, and begin to walk away. In a moment I am seated at my table, a prepared meal set before me, now cold and tasteless, though I doubt I would find it anymore appealing if it were not. Kovacs and Dreiberg are approaching now, from behind; they think themselves stealthy, no doubt. I chew my food slowly, hating the taste of it. I steel myself for what is to come. I have made the sacrifice already; I have endured the pain, not for my profit, but for the profit of an entire planet. I created order from chaos, I brought forth light from darkness. I am Ozymandias, king of kings. I have conquered the evils that beset man, through the immortal wisdom of the Pharaohs. I am the world’s smartest man. "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.-Percy Bysshe Shelley
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STARS He tried to run. Once, back home, he would have flown. Now, he stumbled, scrambling furiously over the mountain of small rocks. He slipped once on a patch of yellow and landed hard on his stomach. A spiky rock missed penetrating his skull by a mere finger. He would have thanked the gods, but he couldn’t think about anything but running. And he ran. He ran till he could hear nothing but the pounding of his own feet, the gasping of his own breath. He ran till the sound of the waves swallowed the shouting of the men behind him. He wanted to stop and collapse till he could finally breathe again. But he kept running, mechanically, until he left the never-ending well of water behind him and was deep within the high walls of stone. Then his legs gave way. He lied there beside the sandy path, half-covered in a tangle of greenery. His chest heaved, and his legs trembled. The sun shone weakly down upon him, its feeble rays failing to warm his body as the damp cold wind grew stronger. He licked his parched lips and reached for the water sack he attached to the rope cord about his waist. Thankfully, water was plentiful here. Warmth proved more difficult to find. And without it, the man would die. He grasped at the vines embedded in the rock wall, pulling himself to his feet. The wind fought his every stride and beat against his chest. These were strong, but he had felt worse in his homeland. They were fearsome golden windstorms, stirring up the sand and blinding everyone within their paths. But there, men’s homes were stronger, their eyes sharper. He finally reached the makeshift hut tucked into the side of the rock. The interior of the shelter was protected on three sides by stone. One blanket stretched over the top, and a second served as a rug on the hard, rocky ground. The man lay on the blanket, his eyes staring blankly and his mind wandering on sands a desert away. His skin was warm but no longer blazing like a small fire. Perhaps the man would see his children again. He held the water pouch out. “Water,” he said softly. The man didn’t seem to hear him. “Water,” he repeated, louder, as he dangled it by the man’s head. When the man didn’t respond, he set the pouch on the ground. Then, taking a deep breath, he slowly un-wrapped the strip of cloth from the man’s foot. The gaping wound a finger long was still oozing a foul-smelling yellow pus. He grimaced as he examined it. If anything, it looked as though the purplish red area around the wound had grown larger. He wished he could heal the man, but he was young. He could only care for his camel’s wounds as they journeyed to the villages. Perhaps his mother or one of the healers from his homeland could have drawn out the poisons that snaked their way through the man’s body. And even they might not have known which were the healing leaves or roots in this plant-laden land. After pouring water over the wound, he rewrapped it in a fresh strip of cloth and began to prepare the evening fire. He made it a small fire, as he was taught. His grandfather repeatedly said a cold man was never warmed by a large fire – he was too afraid of being burned alive to crouch close to the life-giving flames. Darkness settled quickly, hanging heavily over the night like a black fog. He longed for a glimpse of the stars, but the evil men could recapture him if he ventured out. He jerked alert at the sound from the makeshift tent. The man’s breathing was loud. The air fought to leave his mouth with a wheezing struggle. For once, his eyes were sharp. His gaze was alert. The man grabbed onto his hand, and his grip was strong. “Tell them.” He started at the words. This was the first the man had said in days. “My son is a strong man. His body is strong. And his heart is strong.” Pride drowned out the pain in his eyes. “And my daughters…They are beautiful, as their mother was.” He gasped for another breath. “Her eyes, like the stars. Tell them.” He leaned close as the man’s voice grew softer. “What do you wish I tell them?” The man’s grip tightened, and the longing in his face increased. “Tell them.” He felt a pang of hurt for this man he met on the ship. He hurt for the man, for his son and daughters whose father was stolen from them. The man drew another breath, painfully. “I – I will see them. Tell them.” He squeezed the man’s hand and pressed it to his strong chest. “On my life.” The man’s eyes were shining. “I will.” His words were faint. He hurt for the man who would never see the stars again. “I –” the man’s voice broke. He held his breath. “I am coming home.” And all was silent. **** -JG
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This is my entry for the FFM contest "Find the Power" It is also a brief tale about Kranos. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Just yesterday, I was a handsome Av-Matoran. Now, I'm a monster. A small, green and black Matoran thought as he sat down in his cave. What will I do now? Both sides hate me. All I can do is sit here and fight my own battles. "Hello Kranos." A familiar voice said. "Made a decision yet?" "No." Kranos replied flatly. "And it doesn't matter what you think. You're dead." "Oh come on. If I were dead, then how could I be here?" The voice said, stepping out of the shadow. "Zek, you died five weeks ago when the Makuta first attacked. I know because I saw you roll off that cliff and plummet into the swamps below. No one could have survived that." Kranos said. "And yet, I am here." Zek said. "No, you're not." Kranos said, annoyed. "You're just a figment of my imagination." "Oh really? Prove it." Zek said, snickering. How Kranos would love to pick up his sword and stab this ghost. But that was the evil talking. Five weeks ago, the Makuta began their assault on Karda Nui. Zek, Kranos, Kirop, Radiak, and Gavla had all been struck by Shadow Leaches, creatures that sucked the light out of you, leaving nothing but a shell full of darkness, hate, and evil. Zek had rolled off of a cliff in his agony and fallen at least forty-thousand feet into the swamps below, where the beasts that dwell down there would feast on his flesh. Kranos had ripped the leach off of his face before he lost his mind. At least, not all of his mind. Kranos' body had changed, but his mind was in a state where a perpetual conflict existed. A battle between good and evil; light and darkness. How easy it would be to let the evil take over, but Kranos would not allow that to happen. He would fight to find the power to keep the darkness at bay until he could find a cure. "Well? What are you waiting for Kranos. Kill me." Zek said. "I can't kill you. You're not real Zek." Kranos said. "Nice try, Makuta." He finished as Zek disappeared. "You're right, misfit. You can't kill him. But I can kill you." The Makuta said as he dropped from the cave ceiling. "This will be extremely fun. But I'll give you one last chance to side with the Makuta." "Why would I do that after what you did to me?" Kranos said, drawing his sword. 'What I did to you? I made you stronger, faster, deadlier. I made you perfect." The Makuta sneered. "Perfect? I'm anything but perfect." Kranos said, edging closer to the dark entity. "Well then, it's been nice knowing you, Kranos." The Makuta said. It was a fierce battle between Kranos and the Makuta. But in the end, with a sword though his thigh, Kranos fell. "Farewell, Kranos. My work is done." The Makuta said as he flew away. White was in the edges of Kranos' eyes, he knew that his time had come. Thank you, Makuta. Kranos said, he didn't even think that he would ever say those words. But the Makuta had ended his suffering and helped Kranos find the power to follow the light. Kranos lay still on the cold, hard ground, greeting Zek on the edges of reality. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Please C&C!
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-Prelude to Darkness- He stood silently, his face a mask of impassivity, watching motionlessly as the golden orb of light sluggishly sunk behind distant rolling hills. The shadows seemed to whisper dark, cruel promises of pain to him, as the crept from the undersides of objects, shades of life born again in darkness. Warmth had turned to cold, happiness to sorrow, dinner jackets and tuxedos to sackcloth and rags, riches to poverty. His cigarette butt glowed, incandescent. The smoke curled from the tips of his mouth as he breathed, inhaling and then exhaling death. All was silent, all was in cloaked in the abyssal shadows. The hand grasping the bottle shook slightly, tremors of uncertainty, barely contained fear of the unknown seeping through a façade of dispassion. The vodka inside sloshed around, the lapping of waves against cliffs of glass. No tears fell, no strangled cry broke the silence. He inhaled. He exhaled. The gray, smoke lazily swirled skywards, reaching towards the crescent moon above. He watched the stars appear, dots of light in the indigo night sky. It was cold, bitter, biting, cruel, and numbing. The half-melted snow lied; Spring had yet to come. Winter’s icy grasp still had an iron core. The twinkling stars above seemed so cold in their brightness, and the moon so dismal and small, that is was little wonder that both light and heat was scarce. As he trudged through the snowy streets, devoid of life or warmth, the mere half liter of vodka continued to slosh, the dinner jackets continued to be sack cloth, and the riches he so fondly dreamed of continued to stay cloaked in dreary, bleak poverty. As he stared at the vacant stores’ displays, half-empty and half-rotting, vestiges of a better time, of happiness and money, he took another smoky breath, and another gulp of the fiery water known as vodka, the distilled potatoes that served as a feeble alternative in the absence of a warm embrace, or the smile of a friend. It was a small comfort, a layer of callous numbness to suppress the gnawing hunger and the turmoil of emotions. He continued down the derelict avenues and alley ways, he dwelt on half-forgotten things, memories and dreams, best left suppressed. The dreams, they hinted at better days, and teased him with previously forgotten memories, happy daydreams of the past, and then brutally tore them from his mind, leaving him painfully empty. The memories were of fire and rivers of blood, screams and pain, loved ones ripped from his arms as he stared on, unable to act as he watched their faces contort with an agony unspeakable. The skyscrapers stood as lonely sentinels of the night, no longer adorned with flashing and twinkling lights, their pride and beauty removed, as absent as their previous caretakers. Beneath their shadows, he laid down to sleep, a broken man finding refugee beneath a broken roof. Night gave way to day, and he awoke to the tingling of the sun’s heat on numb, frozen skin. It wasn’t a comfort to a dying man; it merely was a cruel promise of one more day of pain and heat, one more serene sunset of lukewarm emotion, and one more night of death and cold. It wasn’t the nights that hurt the worst; it was the sunsets, the remembering of terrible things, and the prelude to darkness. * * *This was literally flash fiction; I churned it out in less than half an hour. Don't be any less critizing because of that, though. A writer needs all the critiquing they can acquire.
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The piercing scream of a, probably last, member of a moribund species shattered the frozen, paralytic silence of the Nindortharn Pass and was then suddenly cut short by the termination of the last individual of this species. Typically, this was anything but a quiet pass. Typically, every lovely morning, dozens of people trekked down this road by the river Algorich, making their way beyond the Valley of Nindor and on to the Thaesterian lowlands. This was a relatively notable trade artery that axed through the valley, nudging the only local major city of Nindorlach and pressing on northeastward into the wastelands. Merchants who sought to set up trade relations with the northerners and the orcs (although a common joke in the Nindor said there was really no difference) often took this path to avoid gnome country and the resultant cross-border taxation. Tonight wasn’t quiet, yes, but it wasn’t typical, either. Lightning slashed the sky and the water of the river Algorich tumultuously whirled round and round – up, up and out of the actual riverbed. This resultant column of water then swung round, aiming for the head of an unfortunate individual not too far away – well, not too unfortunate. Drawing a two-handed sword, this individual spun round, drawing a wide arc in the air. His weapon glowed like a thousand suns in the darkest night, and the column broke. It shattered in midflight as the wind howled, carrying a million water drops – the spawn of that collapsed column – off to parts unknown. He wasn’t a tall man, barely taller than an average fourteen year old. His wind-weathered face spoke of a hundred battles, this one being merely, by his expression, a trifle. He had a short nose and dark (albeit slowly graying), short hair, barely going further down than his ears, wore a suit of plate armor and looked as if his best days were long gone, or he was at least telling himself as much. Lightning struck, again, but this time not from the skies, but from the left hand of a cloaked figure standing about a hundred paces away. In the right one they grasped an ethereal, translucent sword with a bright purple glow. The swordsman jumped out of the path of the lightning bolt, letting another participant of this surreal battle take point. She wore no armor; just a plain dark green robe that would’ve offered her no protection from swords or axes. She was young – definitely younger than the swordsman – and youth, in all its splendor, still shone from her gentle, beautiful face, and from the bright red, living color of her long hair. Raising her hand in a clenched fist, she quickly made a set of signs in the air, drawing wide arcs with her fingers. Stretching out her left hand, she, herself, flung a lightning bolt at the one rapidly approaching her. The bolts collided and shattered, making way for the fourth combatant in this battle of the supernatural and supralogical. He wasn’t tall, either. It was usually rare for an elf to be taller than a human, it often being vice-versa. Wearing a suit of leather armor, an expression of mild irritation and a head of spiky, silver-white hair (by no means in any way implying that he was old), this Elven youth charged the cloaked figure, devouring those hundred paces as if they were hamburgers, broadsword in one hand, dagger in the other. The wind seemed to blow in the precisely right direction tonight as it swept after the elf, urging him on. Naturally, the cloaked figure wasn’t going to stand down as easily. A sequence of three fireballs flew at the whitehair, who, arm stretched out to the right, rolled aside, using his hand as leverage to jump back to his feet as if nothing had happened and push himself back into a sprint forward. On the left hand side of this battlefield, the two-hand swordsman joined him in this charge, although his heavy armor and sword made him significantly slower. The cloaked figure, in their confusion and being caught off guard, found themselves doing the one logical thing they still could – spikes from the ground. Making two quick palm movements in the air, the trio’s opponent uprooted the earth itself, making large stone formations as sharp as daggers emerge from the ground right in the paths of the two swordsmen. Unfortunately to the figure, that was precisely what they were expecting. The whitehair elf fell forward as the spikes rose. For a moment, you’d have been expecting him to take one right through the heart. However, an elf was not a human, and that had certain extra bonuses when it came to agility. His hand stretched out, grasping at this forming stalagmite’s tip, and in an action almost too quick to make out, he handwalked his way over the spike. The cloaked magician was, needless to say, surprised; but that did not stop him from getting his act back together quick enough to face the elf, ready for a duel with ethereal sword in hand. The elf stood, facing the figure, and, almost absentmindedly, puffed slightly upwards, towards a loose strand of his hair. “Well, now,” he muttered, “that was interesting. Never thought I could do that. Well. Let’s get on with your skewering into pieces, then, ar’taith.” The piercing scream of a member of another moribund species pierced and shattered the silence of the Nindortharn Pass. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- “As they say in Dhasallia,” the white-haired elf said, placing three tankards nigh overflowing with ale on a table in a dark, damp room in an equally dark, equally damp tavern before his two comrades, “good work, guys. Another two or three such jobs and we’ll be able to relax a while. Maybe buy a villa somewhere down south.” Tara – for that was the name of the redhead mage member of this group – sighed. Every time they even so vaguely spoke of future plans, her Elven brother-in-arms would mention a villa in the south, and his eyes would glaze over with dreams of such a villa. She didn’t mind it in any way, it’s just that whenever asked why this villa mattered so much, he’d say nothing but, ‘No reason’ and that irked her quite a lot, because she felt like, for some reason, she needed to know. “Pipe dreams, Aercadh,” the older man muttered under his nose, “I thought we agreed. We reach our goal of two thousand gold crowns, and then I quit. Get out of Thaesteria, get out of these wild borderlands and, taking half of that, I head south and back home to Dhasallia, where I would finally retire. You two, splitting those two quarters left, won’t afford a villa down in the south. Think of how far it is, how much the food’s gonna cost, how much---“ “Enough, Darmod, I get it.” Darmod. That was an interesting name, thought Aercadh. It wasn’t Dhasallian, certainly, despite Darmod continuously claiming he was from there. It might’ve been some human barbarization of the elvish name Diarmuidh, or one of its variants. Not exactly the sort of name that hints at one’s origins. Such names often occured within families of mixed human and Elven roots, or within Elven families that had gotten slightly better off and adapted better to human society – but Darmod looked neither Elven nor half-Elven by any standard. Aercadh, himself, came from the west of Thaesteria, from a small Elven ghetto in an even smaller town popularly referred to as a hellhole. Every morning you would be roused from your sleep by a scent best described as an amalgamation of the subtle textures of dog dung and cow fart, and as you walked down the street you had to be careful not to trip over sleeping hobos. The bright side of living there – the only bright side – was that the ghetto’s population constituting an overall majority of the town’s inhabitants, there was no real notable discrimination against elves. Well, except on holidays. Tradition. “Irrespective of what we’ll actually do with the money,” Tara muttered, rousing the other two from their respective moments of being lost in thought, “we still need to earn it. And I rather hope that you won’t waste what we earned today on ale. These are the last pints you’re getting today.” These words provoked a low if only slightly amused whine from Aercadh. “Tara, you’re such a spoilsport---” “No, shut up, Aercadh. You know very well what happens when you start drinking.” Aercadh let out another low grovel and shot Tara an amused smile. “Fine,” he finally said and took a gulp from his pint. Tara sighed, and shot a look out the inn’s window, where, in the distant east, the sun was starting a weary, slow ascent through the sky. “Tara,” he said, quietly, “what will you do with your part of the money?” “My part of the money?” she echoed, a curious expression on her face, as she seemingly drifted away from the conversation entirely, her eyes distant and glazed with an air that only dreamers ever have. “Well,” she said awhile later, “I think I’d just do what I’m doing right now. Doing whatever I can to survive. The Order of Magi doesn’t like illegal mages like me, remember? Sitting in one place is unhealthy for me.” “You’re a pretty sad person,” Aercadh replied, simply, his face remarkably serious for that sort of statement. “What?” “I mean, really. You can’t ever have a home. Tara, you say sitting in one place is literally unhealthy to you, and that’s pretty darn true – well, you’re gonna die if you sit in one place, yeah. Someone’s gonna come around and cleave your pretty head off. But not sitting in one place, never… is really unhealthy to anyone, Tara. Settling down is a thing you ought to do sometime. And you can’t even do that, because that particular option was forcibly taken from you.” Tara opened her mouth, closed it again, and then just smiled. A smile incredibly shy for her. “Wow, Aercadh, that was pretty intelligent for you. I’m surprised. Pleasantly.” “It’s the ale. Like you said. I really shouldn’t drink more.” She laughed. Aercadh laughed, too. Even old man Darmod managed a grin, and out the window, the sun finally emerged from beyond the horizon. “Okay, fine,” Tara said, a few moments later, and grinned. “You can have one more pint.” -----------------This is one of those short stories which, after writing, I find myself asking, "What the heck was I trying to say with this?" - there's no overarching plot nor plot twist, just the introduction of three characters and a battle scene. Then again, most of my short stories tend to be either experimental or... practice, so it worked quite well in that regard. Anyway. Comments appreciated. -Dovydas
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Emptiness. Vacuum. Darkness. Guilt. I could feel nothing but the tide of sorrow and shame washing over me, drowning me in a wave of endless white nights. Then suddenly a spurt of red brought focus back in my flickering eyesight. Colour flooded my vision as agony coursed up my arm. Droplets of crimson dripping. Tears of ruby trickling. A rivulet of beautiful life spilling down my sleeve, riveting my eyes by the stark red. I gasped in pain and I smiled. This was more like it. I was a cutter. A masochist, taking pleasure in my own pain, revelling in every drop of blood that emerged, every stroke of pain I inflicted on myself. It was the only way I knew to deal with the pain inside. Most people don’t understand what being a cutter really means. They call us selfish cowards, emo punks, and a good deal more. They mutter and point at us like we’re some freakish animal. They don’t know what it’s like. People like to pretend that there’s something wrong with us, that normal teens don’t do this. That it’s our fault. The real tragedy is how many cutters believe them. Nobody likes unhappy people. They avoid us, the broken problem people. That’s why most of us hide it. We say that an imaginary cat scratched us, that it was an accident. We pretend to be normal just to avoid the mocking eyes and cruel words that drove us to it in the first place. Do you know what it’s like, having to say everything’s okay, when you want to scream it’s not? Placing an artificial nylon smile on your face? Pretending every single day of your life, with everyone. Getting up and facing the world when the only thought in your mind is the knife you hid in your room. The beautifully sharp knife, the only escape offered you. Your only friend. Do you know what I’m trying to say? No, you don’t know. You can’t know unless you’ve been there. So don’t give me that I know what you mean . I know what you’re going to say. I should see a psychiatrist. Do you think I haven’t? I know all the doctors in the hospital by name now. They just want you pop packets upon packets of pills, they just want to medicate you out of your mind. Change you in someone else. Well, that’s alright, you say, surely being someone else is better than having so much pain? It isn’t. It never will be. Because when you stare into the mirror and see a stranger in those blank eyes, that’s the worst pain of all. Your friends cry and cajole, plead and pray. Pray for someone to fix this problem. Pray for someone to fix you. Coaxing promises out of you that you know you can never keep. Raging at you when they see a fresh bandage, even though you tell them it wasn’t intentional. Blaming you for not trying hard enough. Then slowly turning away, until you just become a piece of gossip to them, no longer a person, no longer a friend. And that’s how you have no one to turn to. Every night, you feel the hurt and sorrow well up inside, bursting its banks like a river flooding. But you can’t cry until you release it somehow. So you do what you must and feel the pain wash over, gasping with relief. It’s addictive. It’s easy to become a cutter, hard to stop. The brain produces endorphins in response to the pain and soon, you need it. You need to hurt yourself, just to feel the blessed cure. You need the pain. But then they take away your knife, pencil sharpener, water glass, anything you can use to hurt yourself. They file your nails so you can’t scratch yourself. They give you blunt pencils. So you learn to hurt yourself with the only things they can’t take away: your teeth. You bite your tongue and cheek, savouring the rich metallic tang that fills your mouth. Cycles of pain, cycles of blood and cycles of secrets and lies. You never talk about it. You have no way of getting help, because if you try, you’re an attention-seeker. But you need it desperately. You need a hand to pull you from the abyss. No man is an island entire of itself. You need someone to help you. Not to judge you, not to pity you, not to fix you. To help you as an equal. To treat you like you’re normal. I had someone. It wasn’t an easy journey but today it’s been three years since I last hurt myself deliberately. It took three years to learn to accept myself. It took three years to stop eyeing others with suspicion and fear. It took three years to realise I had no reason to be ashamed for who I am and that I am more than they say I am. Laugh at me now and I won’t wince. Insult me and I’ll smile. Call me a cutter now and I’ll positively beam. Because I’m glad I was a cutter. Now I no longer hide my scars, both within and without. I am who I am and the wounds remember who I was. They are disfigurements to most eyes but I wear my battle scars with pride, because to me they spell out a simple message. I made it. I fought for my life and I won. I’m alive. People all around me have died, but I still live, happy and whole once more. Can there be a greater victory than the battle within yourself? It has been dark but it is now dawn.
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To all the men and women of America who served, serves, or will serve their nation. Heroism defies spatio-temporality. The somber fingers of night crept into my tent. Outside it was so positively dark that there was no light to enter through the flap, leaving whatever did so devoid of any illumination that it was merely a brighter hue of shadow. But even with so little to see by, I could not sleep. My mind pulsed with memories of what I had left behind and what I might never see again. I saw a frenzy of bloody scenes, images of violence and terror and destruction that made my heart race. When I opened my eyes to distract them there only a void around me. I tried not to think … I didn't want to think … I wanted to be far away … With a sigh I heaved myself to my feet and emerged into the night air. It was warm, but there was a sobering breeze for balance. As temperate as a summer's day … My thoughts were interrupted by a cry from somewhere within the camp, a prisoner's wail. It started out low like a gurgle, rolling into a level shriek, then shattering into a fitful waver from pitch to pitch until it finally died away. For as long as it had lasted my mind had become consumed by it. It had dragged me into its abyss of misery as if it were all that existed. Now in the regathering hush I found myself back in Afghanistan. Not that that was much better. I was shivering convulsively. Forcibly I calmed my ruffled mind and turned it to other things: reminiscences, desires, dreams, anything but the reality of the present. I sat or I fell, it could be put either way. One way or another I came to a cross-legged position in the dirt, and after brushing a sharp stone from underneath my ankle I lifted my eyes to the sky. The stars glowed brighter than I had ever seen them; they were the only light within miles. I searched them for constellations, but I wasn't familiar with the night sky here. It was like someone you had never met but who reminded you of an old friend. Yet they were not; these were not my friends. They were strangers, cold and foreign. During my life I had become intimate with my stars. They had been nocturnal companions, there with me when I was alone in the darkness to console and advise me. Before my marriage they had belonged to me in the darkness; now they belonged to the both of us. But she was not here, and even when I looked for my stars I could not find them. I tried to peer behind them, piercing the heavenly veil to see what lay beyond … "Here more than anywhere," I murmured, "you should be able to hear me. Can you?" The breeze stirred, becoming stronger. On its currents soared a sound, which at first I could not identify; then it became a voice, like the ringing of distant bells or the singing of birds. A smile crept upon my lips. I said, "You're right. He always can. But can you?" Fingers of air brushed along my arm. I took them in my hand, gingerly wrapping my own fingers around the ether. "I know you can." I said, "I'm sure I don't have to say this. But I miss you." … "What do you mean? You're my wife, why shouldn't I miss you?" … "But we're not together. I'm here, and you're back home--" … "What's that supposed to mean?" … "But I am here, right now. How can I--" I sighed as she interrupted again. "All right, all right. Time and place has nothing to do with this--with us." … "Beyond the four dimensions, I like that. This isn't spatio-temporal. We're above that." … "Look, just because you're wiser and smarter than I am, you don't have to act like a guru. I know you are." … "Don't say that. You are and you know it. We both know it." … I laughed. "Don't bother to deny it. I don't believe a word of your modesty. I know you too well. I love you too much." The air stilled. I sighed, planting an elbow on my knee and resting my chin in my palm. "I must be crazy, sitting alone in the night and talking to someone on the other end of the world." The wind picked up into a violent gust that nearly blinded me with sand. "Okay, I'm sorry! It's just hard to feel like I'm not alone. You must know that. You must be feeling the same." … "Am I forgiven?" … "I love you." Without a pause I added, "The stars are beautiful tonight." … "No they're not always. Only when I'm with you." … "You're right. They always are, then." I swept a hand across the sky as if to gather all the heavenly lamps into my grasp. I held out my hand to her again, and her fingers brushed up all the moondust. We didn't say much more. In a state that defies time and space, topics of conversation that pertain to either become null. Besides, such a state is too precious to waste talking too much. Each moment seemed an eternity of quiet ecstasy. I just wanted to savor every one before morning. When a yawn sundered my lips, sending tremors throughout my body, I knew it was time to turn in. "You're still there, aren't you?" … "Sorry, it was a stupid question. I'm practically asleep, I can't think straight. I should be going back to bed, I guess. Big day tomorrow." … "I just want to tell you one more thing before I go." … "I think you were right. Or are. Probably doesn't matter which. If our love defies spatio-temporality like you said, it defies tense, too. Were, are, will be, doesn't matter. No, I know you're right. Our love isn't here or there or now and then, but ubiquitous and always. … Oh, I know I sound ridiculous, but you make a poet out of me." … "I didn't say a very good poet. You say these things better. I'm trying to think of the right word to put it all in, but I can't think of one. Our love--it's--it's--" … "Ethereal. Yes, that's the word." … "I love you. And you don't have to say anything more … because I know you love me, too. I'll come back to you, alive, don't worry about that. But not until I've done something to make the world a better place for you to live in." … "All right. For us to live in." Her tone was as smooth as the aery stars, washing over my heart and lifting it up into the Heavens. Warmer than the breeze but as soft, her breath tickled my ear as she whispered, "Be safe, love. I just want you home. I don't need a hero." "With your strength behind me, you'll have both." I brought my hand to my face. My lips met my palm in a yearning kiss, and I let the wind carry it away. It was the best I could do for now. But I would do better. "Good night, darling." I'm not sure which of us said it or whether we both did. Saying nothing more I rose and returned to my tent. Sleep took me into its embrace, as welcoming and warm as my wife's waiting arms. Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith
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I lie awake in the middle of the night and listen to the rain, waiting for dawn. It's not coming, of course. Belligerently so, daylight refuses to rise from beyond the city skyline dominating the distant, foreign horizon. Like a pagan goddess, she rejects all of her worshippers' pleas without so much as hearing a single word escape their lips, rejects those pleas elegantly, with the world's greatest pretense of kindness. There will be no dawn for me. What I feel right now is a precise, factory-made, carbon copy of the feelings of a man stuck beyond life and beyond death, imprisoned in purgatory with neither heaven nor inferno willing to claim him. There is simply no future left for me. God himself has forsaken me. What should I expect? I did not serve him, no more than I served any prince or peer, no more than I served the Tsar – that would mean I did not serve him at all. Fealty I swore to none save the people and the land, and to no heaven but the one we would make for our children. And yet, I have no regrets. Even if God has forsaken me, I do not regret what I have fought for. I do not regret that I have forsaken Him. I regret nothing but my failure to bring the people a future where no one dares wrong them. I will see no dawn, and I know it. The enemy is coming; I feel their footsteps shake the ground from miles away. I feel their breath pollute the damp air of the night. I feel their hate, I remember their treason, and I fear for the fates of a million children under their reign. I do not fear for myself. I have no reason to worry about something as meaningless as my life. Falling to the cold, hard ground, I attempt the meaningless action of a grasp at the floorboards of my apartment room. They are probably racing down this calm avenue right now, I know as much. Some, who have never been in our situation, might say we were foolish, might say we fought the wrong wars and fought tyrants only for new ones to arise, in no small part due to our own errors. Might say we didn't stop what was imminent even when we knew it was. But our struggle I would never sell for any price on this earth. We failed, ultimately, yes. So what? Were we wrong? All we wanted was that the children of our children would live better lives than we had. We fought for a better world, a world we thought and still think worth dying for. My hands, absentmindedly scratching at the wooden floor of my apartment, inadvertely chance upon the loose floorboard under which I used to keep my subversive literature and "revolutionary equipment," back when I still had to hide it. Hastily, as if urged on by some spirit, I remove the boards. There lies a copy of Marx's Das Kapital1, and one of Chernyshevsky's What Is To Be Done?2Two revolvers, one still loaded. And a flag, red and bright as blood, defaced with the words, "In struggle you claim your rights."3 All is silent. My executioners refuse to arrive, refuse to claim their victory, refuse to be merciful. They refuse to let me have my death. This is Butyrka Prison4 all over again. The most horrifying thing about that old prison was never the treatment they gave us, no. It was the knowledge that you would, a week later, be executed. Even if that execution never came, the prison guards and leadership created a fantastically vivid image of its inevitability. Every Monday morning, my cellmate, Alexei, himself an SR5 imprisoned for trying to assassinate Tsarist officials, just like me, would sit up in his bed and say, more to God than to anyone else, “Are they killing us yet?” Death never came. No matter how many days we waited for them to come and kill us, death never came. That, more than anything, drove Alexei crazy. Every waking moment he spent in that cell, every moment that he knew he could die, drove him insane. A month after we came to Butyrka, he had already started talking delusions. “I hear demons, Yaakov. Every night, they call to me.” It was horrific to see Alexei that way back then, yes… but now, more than ever, I see just how horrific it was to him. For I, too, hear demons, now. I wish they would just come and deliver me from this horror; end my miserable life, and free me to an afterlife I do not believe in. No God can help me anymore, for all gods I have forsaken. No revolution will free me from this prison of my mind, like it freed me from Butyrka. No revolution will free me from a blade of unfair judgment today. All I was… was a dreamer. And now, the only thing that still clasps me to my sanity is the same thing I repeated before sleep every night in prison. “’Tis in struggle that you claim your rights.” I mutter it a hundred times under my nose, my breaths growing weaker as my head spins, my hands desperately clutching at the floor, simultaneously defying the increased sense of gravity that is dragging me ever closer to the ground. I do, it turns out, in fact, fear death. I fear the cold world outside which has betrayed my people and defied my revolution. I fear the cold world outside that, without any regret present in its mind, is driving itself toward destruction, where the masses are coldly guided into killing fields as humanity sells peace and love for blood and iron. “In struggle you claim your rights.” I repeat the words, as if they would help me, as tears well up in my eyes. I have no regrets on the type of life I chose to lead, yes. But what of those I loved? “In struggle… you claim…” I thought of all of those people, my head spinning so fast I literally thought I was falling. The world seemed to twist and meld, the colors mixing in the strangest fashions as a single lone teardrop of mine landed on the copy of Das Kapital I kept under my floorboard. All those people. My brother. My sister. My father, my cousin, my mother. All of them have suffered way too much for it to be reasonable. Why? What world could do this? “You are meant for great things, Kapel6.” The sudden memory of my father hit me so suddenly, so radically that I couldn't help but simply gasp. Within moments, I was overwhelmed by this unexpected image and found myself living through that moment of my childhood, some time long, long, long ago, lost in the vividness of the picture. “Here’s a thing the rabbi doesn’t tell you, except when he’s drunk and upset about his daughter marrying that Ukrainian kid. God could’ve done much better at making this world. Another thing he will never tell you: people like you, like your brother, like your sister and like millions of others that are there are the ones who will correct his mistakes. Ordinary people. People who try to do what’s right by everyone.” “You will change this world, Kapel. You and millions like you.” “In struggle…” “… You claim your rights,” I whisper to myself, my tears swept away as if by a hurricane. My eyes pass over the room, and I feel as if I see it for the first time. I was not just a dreamer. I was one of millions of people who try to do what’s right by everyone. I fought against oppression and was victorious! For a moment, I was victorious. That moment the people, the people, that ultimate article of civilization that I truly believe in, rose up and freed me from Butyrka, I was victorious, because like millions of other ordinary people, I had shown the world what I always have believed: that no matter how much power over the people you accumulate, the people always have more! And no one will take that from me! I am not a hero. I am merely one of millions. I may die tonight, but others will always take my place, because while power runs out, the people are legion! And I must not flee, not ever; because it is this cause - justice and freedom for the people - that I have fought for all my life and my loved ones have died for. Their sacrifice, my sacrifices, all Russia’s sacrifices will not be in vain. I hear them knock on my door. I know it’s them. My first-floor neighbor already phoned me to tell me they’re coming. It doesn’t matter; they will not take me alive. I will only fall of my own volition. They will start breaking down the door in approximately two minutes of continued knocking. I haven’t much time. Seizing this opportunity, I reach for the red flag under my floorboard and cloak myself with it, clasping it round my neck with a set of good-enough knots. It is then that the CHEKA smash down the door with a crash, and it is then that I scream three words, just three words. Three words that I think worth dying for. “Land and Liberty!"7 I scream. I scream as they jump towards me. I scream as I pull the trigger of that one loaded revolver I have, now placed at my temple. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Well, BZPower, what can I tell you? I'm back. It's been awhile since I actually posted anything even vaguely artistic here. It's been a long while indeed. Now, this is, as you may understand (or not) by now, a historical fiction work. It is set somewhere in the time period between 1918 and 1920 in Russia, and as a historical fiction work, I think it deserves a few footnotes to explain the more historical, often subtle, references of this work. 1) One of two of Karl Marx’s most famous works, ‘The Capital’ – his economic analysis of capitalism 2) 1863 novel by Nikolai Chernyshevsky. Significantly radicalized Russia‘s democratic and liberal forces of the time, turned many of the middle class against the Tsar's rule. 3) The Socialist-Revolutionary Party of Russia’s slogan (Russian: "В борьбе обретешь ты право свое!") 4) Tsarist Russia‘s prime prison, used to keep political prisoners. 5) The Socialist-Revolutionary Party was Russia‘s primary democratic socialist force at the time of the February Revolution of 1917, alongside the Mensheviks. Unlike the Mensheviks and the Bolsheviks, it did not consider itself Marxist (although some of its leaders did) and had huge support in the nation, mainly due to its policy of land socialization (land was to be redistributed from the wealthy landowners to the landless peasants). After the October Revolution, despite the Bolsheviks now being in power, the SRs managed to secure an absolute majority of seats in Russia‘s Constituent Assembly (53%). The Constituent Assembly, however, was disbanded a day later by force and the SRs were continuously marginalized and/or persecuted. 6) Common Yiddish diminutive for ‘Yaakov’ 7) Also a popular SR slogan (Russian: земля и воля) Legal disclaimer: this story was not intended, and I wholeheartedly request, for fear of someone locking the topic, that people would refrain from using it as a reason to start political discussion (as the Bolshevik revolution remains a touchy subject in many places, Russia in particular) - I would prefer if we did not discuss the historical aspect of the story at all (or perhaps discuss it over PM, if someone so wishes?), and instead viewed it as any other short story. And yes, the posting of this story has been approved by the staff, even. This time period was intended as an interesting setting for a story, nothing more. So yeah, BZPower. Any thoughts? -Dovydas
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Hi guys, I've been toying around with this for a while now and I finished it! __________________________________________________________________________ Before there was time, there were the Great Beings. They created many worlds, masks, and creatures to inhabit the universe, but there was something missing. They needed someone to watch over these new creations, someone to protect them, someone to love them, and someone for the creations to look up to. Thus they created two rulers. A Toa of Time, Temporus. As well as a younger Toa of Life, Vitarus. They wore no Kanohi, but possessed full control over the gates of time, as well as the key of life. But peace cannot exist without chaos. An ever-present evil, slumbering in the void for eons, had awakened. It possessed no physical form, but existed in shadow. The shadow only existed to kill, deceive, and devour everything in its path. The two Toa fought valiantly against it, but they grew weaker every time they battled. In a final stand against the shadow, Temporus sealed the shadow behind the gates of time, and Vitarus locked it with the key of life. Thus there was peace amongst all of creation. But as mentioned before, peace cannot exist without chaos. Eventually Temporus, once a proud and noble protector, fell to selfish desires. He abused the great creation for his own gain, but he always wanted more. Keeping the shadow locked away in his element was not a wise choice, it made him stronger, yes. But it also corrupted him. Thus Temporus succumbed to the evil that was dwelling inside of him. Vitarus confronted him about it, demanding that he stop what he was doing. But Temporus had fallen too far; he struck down his younger brother and fled to the Far East. Vitarus could not allow his brother to continue his evil deeds. Brother or not, Vitarus had no choice but to kill Temporus. Vitarus walked throughout all of creation one last time. Once it was a beautiful place, but now creation lived in fear of destruction. Vitarus followed his brother’s well concealed trail to the void, the infinite emptiness where the shadow used to dwell. Vitarus called out to his brother one last time, demanding him to stop what he was doing. But the brother that Vitarus loved was no longer there. Now he was possessed by emptiness, shadow, and fear, the three elements that the both of them had battled for so long to purge from the beautiful creation. Seeing that he had no choice, Vitarus made the first strike, he cleaved off Temporus’ left arm. But Temporus paid no mind. Vitarus was releasing the shadow which longed to feast on the lives of others. Every time that Vitarus wounded Temporus, a shadow limb grew in its place. Vitarus had realized what he had done and immediately stopped. The shadow didn’t. It destroyed the last of Temporus’ body and materialized into a body of darkness. The shadow struck at Vitarus and nearly killed him. The shadow then gave Vitarus one chance to join him, but Vitarus believed in the same words that he had learned from the first day of life. Unity, duty, and destiny. Temporus then had an idea, “I stand united with my people!” He declared. The shadow withdrew, clearly weakened by the word. “My duty is to protect my people!” He said. The shadow responded by staggering back and howling in pain. “My destiny is to bring life, where there once was death!” He finished. The shadow was severely weakened by Vitarus’ brief speech. But it was persistent to have his way. The shadow and Vitarus battled fiercely with each other, both gaining a foothold in victory, and losing it abruptly. Mortally wounded by a cut going from his right eye across his chest, Vitarus released his remaining power and shut the shadow away in the void forever, sealing it with the symbol of unity, duty, and destiny. Vitarus perished that day, but the Great Beings immortalized him and his fallen brother in legends and masks. The legends were forgotten and the masks were lost. But one day, the mask of Time and the mask of Life would be found. And both of the Toa would live once again. _______________________________________________________________ Thanks for reading!
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Attic Treasure I PULLED FORCEFULLY ON the string, and with a whoosh the wooden stairs slid down, landing with a thump onto the carpeted floor. My body shook nervously – I knew it was forbidden for me to go up there. But my parents were away, and my curiosity finally got the best of me. I jumped down from the bed which I had mounted so I could reach the string, and quickly ran to the foot of the ladder. Looking up I could see nothing but a Cimmerian hole, so black that it seemed to suck all light from the room like a black hole. My palms sweated furiously, and for the umpteenth time I had second thoughts on my decision to disobey my parents. But I had made up my mind – or rather, my curiosity had – and started my ascent up the wooden rungs and into the attic. My foot slipped on the second rung from the sweat my feet were coated in and my face hit the bottom bar of the ladder. “Ow!” I cried out to no one in particular. Sometimes it just seemed to make it better to yell out when I was in pain. I was on the floor now, my legs sprawled in front of me. I rubbed my mouth and forehead gently, smearing a few drops of blood that had dripped from my nose onto my otherwise unblemished head. Tears began to form in my eyes, but I quickly shook them away. I was eight years old, after all. Much too old for tears, as my dad would say. And immediately the memories came rushing back. Memories of my Daddy; far too few memories. He had been gone for five months, off on another tour of duty for the United States Navy. Every moment he was home seemed happier for the whole family: me, Mommy, and even little Johnny who was still crawling. I missed him so much. He was the one who had first given me the idea of going up here, but my mom adamantly refused, muttering things like “he’s too young” and “maybe when he’s older” and “a boy his age shouldn’t see that.” I didn’t know what she meant, but it only piqued my interest more and now I could wait no more. I quickly stood up, rubbing my head again, knowing that I must hurry if I were to make it up and back down before my mom got home from grocery shopping. I took extra care to wipe my sweaty feet on the carpet and continued back up the ladder, toward the aphotic hole where I had no idea what awaited me. I took each step slowly, remembering what had happened the last time when I had tried to move too quickly; I didn’t want to fall again. My head emerged, and finally my eyes adjusted. I wasn’t nearly as nebulous as it looked from below; rays were flying upward from the hole the ladder was connected to in the floor. I climbed out of the portal completely, pulling myself up with my arms. I stood up, stumbling at first on my short legs, but gaining my bearings and observing the scene around me. Along the walls were many boxes, tables, shelves, and other various objects, each box with assorted items hanging out. To my right, in front of a large window covered in drapes, was a colossal telescope, easily twice my size. For a moment I simply stood there, gawking at its magnificence. Slowly, as if under their own power, my legs began to move, directing my body toward the gold and silver contraption. I was completely mesmerized, taken aback at the elegance of the discovery before me. I placed a hand on the drapes and flung them open. Immediately the moon- and star-light shone brightly through the large window, sparkling when it hit the gleaming metal of the under parts of the telescope – the top was covered in a layer of dust. My mouth hung open, and I could do nothing as I neared it but stare. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. I knew it was a telescope: my dad had taught me about the stars and planets and other entities that roamed the skies, and how this device allowed you to see them more clearly. But I had never seen one this big in person, much less been able to use one. A smile crept onto my lips, the joy to receive the treasure of knowledge the telescope gave clearly present on my face. I tried to reach the eyepiece, but its towering height made it much too far away for me to grasp. Instead I proceeded to the window again, enthralled by the stars. There were so many of them that the sky seemed almost a faded white instead of dark blue. But I could see the darkness creeping out from behind the brilliance – the background hanging behind the dots of light. The crescent moon shone brightest of all, like some sort of sideways smile of radiance. It was truly beautiful. I had seen the night sky before, of course, but I had never taken the time to really enjoy it. And it was amazing. I finally looked down to see the grassy fields that surrounded our country home, a dirt path leading into the woods and beyond… A tear dripped down my cheek as I remembered the times Daddy and I had gone into those woods together. At any foreign sound he would grip my hand even tighter and tell me it was okay. He would just continue walking forward, completely confident and unafraid. It didn’t seem like anything could ever scare him. He was always so brave, so unwavered by any scary noise or sight. I had always felt safe when I was with him. His large hand holding mine. His comforting smile. His eyes that showed how happy he was to be with me. They were the best moments of my life, spending time with him. I’d go anywhere with him. Even the scariest places imaginable. I missed him so much. Why does he always have to be gone? I wiped my eyes and face, clearing the tears away. Daddy wouldn’t want me to cry. He always told me to be strong. I had to look after Mommy when he wasn’t here. I tried to remain strong, but it was hard. He’s always gone so long. At least I knew it wouldn’t be much longer now. “Only another month,” I whispered to myself as I looked out to the woods again. I saw what I thought was a squirrel leap from one tree to another. I looked up at the sky for a second time: the blanket of black and white hanging over my head. And suddenly, despite the beauty, I felt so small. I finally looked away and turned around. I looked around the attic. There was so much – so much history, so many seemingly random things. The excitement in my chest grew again. There was so much, and I couldn’t possibly go through it all in time. My eyes landed on an old, beaten chest on the opposite side of the room. I quickly ran to it, my stubby legs probably looking ridiculous as I toddled across the wooden floor. I flung myself onto it, searching for an opening before I found a rusted lock. I attempted to open it, but even in its antique shape it stayed true to its purpose: keeping unwanted people out. I searched for a key, but could find none. My eyes rested on the chest again, and for the first time I noticed all the stickers dotting its sides. Then I knew what the trunk was, what it contained. Daddy had told me a couple years ago about his own dad, and how he had fought in something called World War Two. He said it was in Germany, and that no one in our family had ever gone there since. The stickers revealed the contents of the case, all from Germany or about the military. I knew this must be what my Mommy didn’t want me seeing. She had said the war was too horrible for me to learn about yet. And she knew that if I came up here I’d want to know what was in the chest and that nothing else would interest me, even the telescope. She was right – the chest fascinated me, and I rubbed my hands across its dust-lined surface. I wanted to stay here, find a way to open it, to discover the treasures of Grandad’s past, but I heard a car pulling up in the driveway. I quickly scurried back to the opening in the floor as fast I could, forgetting to close the drapes again and not caring to be careful with my descent on the steps, only concerned with not letting my mom catch me. I made it down without falling and I pushed the ladder back into its crevice, the flap with the string swinging shut behind it. I quickly jumped on my bed and picked up a comic book just as I heard the front door open. “Jack, I’m home!” I heard her call from downstairs. “Hi, Mommy!” I called back. I tried to focus on the pages before me, but I couldn’t think about anything besides the gems I had found above my room. I knew I had to find out what was in that chest. ~ :: ~ Library :: Blog
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It was with small steps she walked across the snow. She placed every foot in front of her with simple, cautious, grace. The twilight lit sky had vanished by now, replaced with the crisp clean light of a moon and the stars. The tranquility of the moment defied description, instead choosing to simply exist, rather than confine itself to simple human understanding. She truly knew peace, out here where no one ever looked. Knew peace from the rest of the corrupt world around her. She laid down, her soft velvet lined coat sinking into the snow. She hardly noticed the cold that was starting to come through her boots. She stared up at the stars with wonder and envy, imagining what it must be like to be one, to always be a beacon of light. Perhaps they were angels, sent from heaven to shine in the night. If only she could know one. She closed her eyes, wishing. Instead of an angel though, she was greeted with memories. Memories of a cozy room, of her and her friend. They had always been the best of friends, and that night, she went to his house. It was Christmas Eve, and she might of drank some of the more potent egg nog before going over. She truly felt at home with him, but his parents didn't see it that way. They had come in, and... she cringed at the memory. So much screaming. She went to her parents, and they had little more to say. So she left her house, to the place where she truly knew peace. Came here and reflected on what exactly the holidays meant. Reflected on what exactly her life meant. Her coughing broke her train of thought. She stood, still coughing, wondering why she truly came here. She slipped her hand into her coat, feeling the cold metal of a gun barrel. Silently, she took off her scarf, her hat, her coat, her boots. Soon she was dressed lightly, modestly but certainly not suitable for this sort of weather. She closed her eyes once more, feeling the chilled steel in her hands. Finally, she let a breath out, firing into the ice beneath her. Her ears were too numb at this point to hurt as the sound went off. She instantly dropped, sinking rapidly into the icy water. With no air in her lungs she sank quickly, the water rapidly sapping all heat out of her uninsulated body. She smiled, though, even as death began its cold, uncaring, embrace. She didn't panic, didn't shake as her body reflexively gulped in the frosty lake water. She just smiled, knowing that she was going somewhere else. Somewhere where she'd be joyous. Somewhere where she could celebrate Christmas. [---] So the Ambage write off on Sunday was Christmas in an effort to guilt people into the FFCC, so I complied and posted this. I don't think it's my best but I've been told it's a nice story.
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Allison It is the morning that is most special to me. Not that I am a morning person - oh no. I am up at odd hours and dread the ringing clock that calls me to wake up and face the sun that burns my eyes and warms my skin beyond what I would prefer. No, I am not a morning person, but the morning (once my eyes no longer are hurting) is the most special time of day for me. It is pure, new, without the struggles of the coming day. She made the morning special, mainly because she wasn’t part of my morning. She was the signal that the time has come to put the (eye burning) peace of the sunrise aside and begin the long fight toward the death of nightfall. The morning makes the fight all the more important, all the more desperate, for if I must leave the peace of the innocent sunrise behind I must make sure I can see it again. I had to make sure that she can see it again. Where did it all begin? The afternoon of my life? It all began with her, the day she walked into the band hall, and I knew that I had to step out of the morning to hold hands with the night. Literally all eyes were on her, Mr. Hryorchuk was introducing her to us after all, but not all eyes were on her face, which was turned down to stare into the air near the ground. No. The eyes that could see were on the long, virgin white bandage that wrapped neatly around the forearm clamped tightly against her side. Few noticed the French Horn that dangled in her left hand. The French Horns noticed, and as their section leader I rejoiced that we now had a third member, but even my eyes were drawn immediately to the three, even, broad, bright red lines that stained the inside of the bandage, revealed only briefly when Mr. Hryorchuk slapped her back as he asked the band to welcome her to the class. I don’t even remember what went through my head while the band murmured a half-hearted welcome to this stranger named Allison who quickly, efficiently, and quietly took her place as my third-chair. We played our songs, Allison catching on quickly and the bell coming (too soon, looking back) to snap the tension of a classroom into the freedom of lunch. “French Horns always eat together,” my second chair, Gabie, beamed at our newbie. Gabie was the embodiment of morning to me. When I was to leave, she would step up more than I ever would have hoped when it came to being a leader in the band. Allison gave the smallest of smiles, and followed us as quietly as a predator moving through the night. The moment I knew would come as soon as I saw the lines – the moment I had hoped there would be sense enough, decency enough, to avoid – came. A boy, a trumpet (wouldn’t you know it?), whose name isn’t worth mentioning brushed past us three with a single word. “Cutter.” I could have punched the runt. Arrogant sophomore, he had no clue what kind of whirlwind he might have gotten if she hadn’t spoken first. “If you really think so, maybe you should let me demonstrate.” For the first words any of us had heard from her, these were not the ones that could have left the best first impression. The fact that they had come out in a low hiss with a long smile most of us had only seen in the movies did not help. The trumpet blanched and moved off, and we French Horns made our way (silently now) to the lunch room to take our place with the saxophones. As soon as we sat down with food, we broke the awkward silence to talk shop. How long had she played? What chair was she at her last school? Did she play anything else? Where was she from? Scores last year at Solo & Ensemble? All the gossip usual to band geeks. She even smiled at the end, until one of the saxes, one of my classmates, leapt onto the elephant we were so contentedly walking around. “What happened?” He asked, pointing at her arm, unconsciously relaxed on the table such that the lines, somewhat more ragged now than they had been. Allison immediately snapped her arm back to her chest, wincing. Her eyes went to the apple in her hand and she smoothly, almost mechanically answered, “Nothing a knife couldn’t cure.” My mind wanted a coin to flip. Fifty-fifty shot at whether she was ashamed or not. I honestly couldn’t tell at that point that the only shame she had was what was having to be “cured” and not how the “cure” was obtained. In any case, her words had the effect of silencing the table as she took one last bite at the apple in her hand and rose to leave. Gabie, my little morning child, sprang to assist and guide her around the school. I had a few words with the saxes, hoping to give Allison a chance before she exiled herself. I didn’t see Allison at all until school rang out for the day, out in the parking lot beneath that merciless sun. Her bandage had been changed, it was pure white now as she slipped on a jacket against the chill wind. I was making my way to my car and offered a ride. The ride to her family’s apartment was silent, for the most part. There was a mild discussion about fingerings between MLK Street and Anderson Street, but it wasn’t until we arrived that she said anything real. I wished her a good day, and a hope that she wouldn’t have to seek a cure tonight. I received back more than I had bargained for. She went slack, hunched over in my passenger seat, and began to speak. She asked me to imagine having to be the 11th grader who was in her third high school, knowing that your step-father’s inability to work would send you to another at the end of the year. She asked me to imagine waking each morning to a kitchen of beers and cold pizza a week old, to come home to a silent mother cleaning up the night in preparation for the evening. She asked me to imagine sleeping to dream the dreams of memories best forgotten, that you wished were forgotten, only to wake to find the memories of creeping hands and heavy breath resurfacing with renewed intensity from a childhood marked by nothing else. She asked me to think of only being able to say you truly owned one thing, and could only control one thing in your life. And so she left, and when I got home I sat in my car and stared into the distance, imagining. I never could think clearly, and now the tears that my control disallowed to be free clouded my mind like mocking voices to condemn me. How dare I wish what I wished her? And so I was handicapped all afternoon, until the sunset came: orange in the sky but red upon my arm. The night passed in clarity and confusion, in desperation and prayer. Silence and speech between age and youth. The morning is special to me. It brings a time to think with the previous day gone, dead. It brings a time to see forward on the day with nothing yet written on the slate. So I, with a virgin white bandage on my arm marred by a jagged line of red, bowed to my mother and left to school with a mind on the day ahead, catching Allison only just before she entered the junior wing. I touched her shoulder, my own bandage hidden by my jacket, and smiled before heading to my own classes. Band was fourth period. There would be time to speak, time to imagine, with morning now over. The new girl was known already among all the students I knew. On every tongue, for what seemed would be ages but was truly only a small while, was the bandage, fresh with the red life of its wearer. I could only speak of her being a French Horn. I never could speak well; translate my hesitant thoughts with my stupid mouth. Band came and went, lunch arrived and passed. Allison, she confessed too late, knew of the words spoken and held her head high during the next week. Then her name slipped out of the common gossip. She was a fixture of the school now, the girl who was proud until she spoke, quickly looking to the floor to keep the anger or sorrow from being read in her eyes. Though she wore her bandage openly, defiantly to those who could not know, my own bandage was never seen by any other than myself and my parents, nor did I need it ever again. I could now imagine, and because I could imagine my days became the fight to regain the morning, the special time when I did not have to imagine. I still gave Allison rides home, and eventually she gave me more to imagine, not knowing why she did. I didn’t know why she did, but I imagined, and I dreamed until I woke up in the morning where the sun could burn from my eyes the images of my imagining. Soon I began picking her up from school, and I no longer had to imagine some things, and my mornings ended too soon as she slowly transformed herself from night to day. Limps smoothed out on the short walk to my car, stray hairs combed into place before my car door was opened, wrinkled sleeves ironed away by unerring hands to cover the perpetual red lines. Ever polite, ever proud, ever effacing herself behind the mask of Allison, who had no bags beneath her eyes or purpled marks at the base of her throat. And so from the first step of hers towards me in the time before the afternoon I imagined and thought my clumsy thoughts. My father is a doctor in our city, and he leads the EMS, and I told him about the things I imagined and thought when the morning was over. He was silent as he departed my room that night so long ago when the sunset was twice red, and every day told me, “Just wait a little while more.” And so I waited a little while more, until the day Allison did not come out to my car, the day I did not touch her shoulder and did not eat with her at lunch. Not until the end of the day did I see her walk proudly into the school with her silent mother to get the work she had missed. It was several weeks before she would give me another thing to imagine, speaking strictly of band and choir and music theory during lunch and while riding home. Winter break was to come soon, and before school let out our band always held chair competitions so that those eager for it could be leaders. Allison was gunning for my chair, obviously, but I was not worried about that. Two weeks before school let out, I offered her the guest room at our house, offered the pure, soft mornings where no imagining had to take place. She declined, and again walked home from school. I saw her rarely during the break, dressed still in our school uniform, now with an ever present jacket to cover her arms I never again saw bare, whether her sleeves were long or short. On New Year’s Eve I heard a call go out over the EMS channel for an ambulance at Allison’s address. That night my father informed me an arrest had been made, and took me to give a deposition to the police at the hospital, standing at the foot of the wide bed where Allison lay like a broken bird, her mother gently sobbing into her hands. It made the headlines, but the inky lines did not contain what I had been told to imagine, to dream, to wonder, and to fight through until morning came. I have not seen Allison since, and I do not know where she is. There was no news, only rumors when she and her mother just left in the night. For ages her name was again on the tongues of the school, but eventually her story became a fixture of the school. The girl who came and went and left nothing behind: nothing but a note in locker 574 by the band hall telling Gabie goodbye and a stained, white bandage wrapped around a small, dull knife in locker 567 that I have kept ever since.
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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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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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There was a dream. A dream of a better tomorrow, a dream of a better world. A world without the problems of humanity, without the politics of home. The new great pilgrimage, from the corrupted world of yesteryear to the new, untamed wilds that rested in wait. It took decades of scientific discovery, decades of technological progress, and decades of preparation to complete that dream. The dedication was finally paid off in the form of a gateway, a passage through space itself to another world. It was then the new world was discovered; a lush planet of greens and blues, a world untouched by human hands. It truly was a paradise, with fruit that could give a man the energy to run a marathon with a single bite and animals who's blood could cure any disease. The sky itself shielded its inhabitants from everything that the void could bring against it, allowing the earth to revile in its security. Even the animals seemed sloth like, noble beasts grazing in fields that stretched for hundreds of miles while predators slept in the shade, occasionally waking to chase down sickened prey. Years would pass. Scientists would marvel at the paradise, longer how such a thing could happen. It wasn't long until industry came. A small settlement began, transporting the marvels of paradise to the dull strife of reality. It grew quickly enough, becoming a bustling port of trade, more and more poured through for the promise of riches in paradise. Then the pilgrims came; those distraught with the world, seeking to begin a new life. They hailed from all walks of life, from all nationalities, from all ethnicity. First it was hundreds; then it became thousands. Then millions. The floodgates had been opened, and now thousands came through the gateway every day. Decades more would pass. The city of New Eden grew to become self reliant. Soon paradise was no longer just a dream. As millions continued to pour through, millions more had spread out across the landscape. In ten years it was one city. In twenty, five. In thirty, fifteen. In forty, independence was declared by many of the large cities, having become so prosperous that they could afford to do so. In sixty years paradise and Earth had become matched in population. As time went on paradise was no longer known by that name. Soon, going from one side of the gateway to the other had no difference. Paradise had given way to the simple and unrelenting force of progress. The fruit of paradise had eliminated hunger; the blood of paradise had eliminated disease. For all those who had fled, seeking solstice in a land they hoped to start anew in, they found that their hopes had been dashed. The dream of a world untouched by human corruption had, ultimately, failed. {------} Yeah I'm not entirely sure what the **** this is either, but it's not utter trash so I figured it warrants getting put up, if only to get tomatoes thrown at it. Is it speaking against the horrors of industry? The benefits of exploitation? The greater good? The evils of deforestation? I don't know anymore than the audience does, I'll let it figure it out. 471 words, which is really shorter than I'm use to. Looks less like a story and more like a highschool essay. Created by Alex Humva, 2012. Please do not reproduce elsewhere without prior permission.
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Entry for fortnightly flash fiction contest since Andrew asked and oh no I don't have any homework at all and wasn't planning on writing one of my other stories for the Ambage at all but who's complaining am I right. Theme: Pathfinding. Wordcount: 964I feel lost. That's not even an awful metaphor either. I literally am not aware of my physical surroundings in their relation to where I want to be. Absolutely lost.The walls are white, painted cement like I remember them being for years. The ceilings are lit by rows of bright fluorescent lights, stretching endlessly down the halls. The floor is black and smells of rubber or crude oil. Petroleum based, anyways. Not like I care. The smell is awful, that's the important thing. When I recall my past in here, it seems --as though a vague mental image-- that it was almost a year ago. The floors have been getting darker and my lungs seem to grate with every breath.I hear footsteps padding down the hall, somewhere around the next corner. I slow down as I approach the next intersection and press myself against the wall. Within seconds the muted echoes approach and I plant a solid fist in the runner's stomach, sending him sprawling across the floor. I look down at his face with an immense amount of guilt as he gasps for breath. There are no mirrors in this place, true, but an external sense tells me that the face of this man is my own. Whether a clone, an apparition, or simply a psychological trick, I no longer care. I put my foot against his throat and do what I've done this entire time, to survive. I know that I am the only one in this maze, quite literally. Every version of myself that I've cut off through decisions in the past have been merged to a single universe, where I've been forced to confront every version of myself and destroy them. I suppose whoever engineered this think of it as am amusing metaphor, that I literally have to kill off every bad decision I've made and come to terms with who I've become in that time, but all I see is a twisted reality where I've become a killer.As his body dissipates into the ground, the stench of rubber seems to grow ever so slightly.I continue down the halls, feeling more cheated with every kill. I feel sick that I'm becoming desensitized to this, that the moral problems and emotional impact is dulled as my methods become more brutal, merciless, and stunningly effective.I make a right at the next intersection, followed by two lefts, a flight of stairs, and another right. There's no method to my choices any more. I used to agonize over the psychology of the maze, how every corner could be a setup to drive me into doing exactly what they want-- whoever they are. But now I just blindly decide on a whim, snapping back and forth, stopping occasionally to listen for the footsteps of myself.Oh, speak of the devil. Another apparition runs past a crossroad ahead, screaming. I lunge forward and give chase. My breaths come heavy now. The death toll of the day is starting to wear. I'll probably take a nap after this one. He's wearing a straitjacket. I quicky match his speed as he turns a corner. I twist my leg around his and plant my foot on the ground, effectively collapsing his gait. I grab his neck and arm as I pull my leg back, slamming him face-first into the ground with a splintering crack. His body slowly disintegrates into a swirling black mass, like a swarm of flies that crawl into the black floor. My stomach is upset and I slump against the wall, directly across from a doorway.Wait. There are no doors in this maze. I haul myself to my feet, wavering, and nearly puke with the excitement of this find. I take one step forward, then two, then I brace myself against the opposite wall with one hand and stop to take a deep breath and calm my stomach. I tentatively slide my fingers around the brass knob. It's cold, shiny and perfectly smooth. It's probably never been touched by my hand. I crack it open, and before I have time to regret my decision, I close my eyes and swing the door wide open.I sit up with a start, my fingers still clenched in midair. The hum of medical equipment fills the silence my ears had been accustomed to in the maze. The walls are still white, but there's something different. My body goes cold as I move my legs, realizing that it feels so different than what I had been doing in there. A doctor stands to my side, frowning."The training was supposed to go on for six weeks more," he remarked. Was he angry, disappointed, or was that just an observation? The feeling of being cheated fills my mind."May I refresh your mind? It's possible that the months in there have erased some of your memories. You are in a military training facility. Here we give you the most difficult of all tasks so that you may be ready for anything in the battlefield. You must know how to kill, and you must see the look in your own eyes as you do so. What have you learned?"None of this sounds familiar. This doesn't sound like something I would voluntarily ask for, and I feel no sense of duty or accomplishment at his words. It all just seems pointless. I stand up and waver for a moment as I regain my balance. Suddenly a new sensation fills my mind and I can't seem to push it back to my subconscious. The feel of solid ground beneath my feet. I'm no longer lost.I grab the doctor by the collar with only a tingling sense of regret in my mind."Let me show you."
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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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IT WAS THE DAY AFTER HIS THIRTIETH BIRTHDAY, AND JOHN HAD TO LEAVE FOR THE WEST COAST. He had lived in New York for twelve years now. That was twelve years worth of friendships he had to say goodbye to. It was only the afternoon, but the sun was already down. He put on nice clothes and ran all the way to Diana's house. All my bags are packed I'm ready to goI'm standin' here outside your doorI hate to wake you up to say goodbyeBut the dawn is breakin' it's early mornThe taxi's waitin' he's blowin' his hornAlready I'm so lonesome I could die He knocked on the door to her apartment. The sound of feet coming down the stairs. She opened the door and he leaned against the railing on the front steps. Her short, golden hair framed her face perfectly. “Does it hurt to say goodbye one last time?” he asked. The coldness of the air turned his breathe into light clouds. “I was worried you wouldn’t say goodbye enough. It’s hard not having you around as a friend anymore,” she said. “It happens,” said John. “It’s an inevitable thing in life you have to get over.” “I’ve never actually…” she said. “Never?” inquired John. “Never ever?” “No,” said Diana. “I guess I’d consider myself lucky. But you get over it, I imagine.” “Maybe,” said John. “It depends on the person. I had friends for my first two years of college who then went their separate ways. I still wish we could keep in contact, although there’s nothing we can do for each other when we’re on separate coasts. I still really miss them. I can live still, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever forget them and be nostalgic from time to time.” “You look cold out,” said Diana. “Come in!” Inside they prepared hot chocolate and sipped at it under the warm orange lights of the kitchen. It was an exceedingly nice apartment. It only lacked a fireplace. He wondered of Diana was expecting him. She was wearing sleek pinstripe pants and a beautiful violet blouse. Even though she was just his best friend, he felt oddly attracted to her. It brought back memories of when he so insecurely wondered if she was the one. He had to mentally slap himself, then and now. It wasn't right to think that. So kiss me and smile for me Tell me that you’ll wait for me Hold me like you’ll never let me go ‘Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane Don’t know when I’ll be back again Oh baby, I hate to go “Nothing heals the soul like a good cup of hot chocolate,” said Diana. She smiled and leaned her elbows against the table, closer to him. She really seemed to be waiting for him and didn’t have much to say. John sipped at the hot chocolate, and winced at how hot it was. He winked and smiled with one corner of his mouth while lifting the cup up to his face again. No, it couldn't be done. He had to put it down. Maybe it would get colder after a long while of conversation. “I really wish I could see you again,” he said. “I do, too,” said Diana. “What if I do come back?” “I’d still be here,” said Diana. “As nice as this place is, it’s still just an apartment. Sooner or later, with your upward mobility, even you will move on. This isn’t the house of someone who’s settled down.” “I’ll send you a letter if that has happened,” said Diana. “That’s very thoughtful…” said John. He tapped his foot. As inevitably happens in all such conversations, there was an awkward silence. “I think I’ll get working on that hot chocolate, then,” he said, and he continued to sip at it one bit at a time. “In case you’re labeling this as an awkward silence, John, don’t worry. I choose to think of it as savoring the moment.” John put down the cup. She leaned in and kissed him. John was conflicted, but he kissed back. “I just wanted to do that once before having to say goodbye,” said Diana. John felt ashamed. He kissed her back and he hadn’t even the slightest reason to. He was moving away, never to see her again. It was a shallow jab at pleasure. Yet it felt so good. It felt so sincere. It felt right. He looked into her eyes. “Maybe we’ll see each other again,” he said. “Would this be motivation for you to come back?” she said. Then the bombshell: “I think I’m in love with you.” John thought about how far away he would be. He would be on the West coast, thousands of miles away. He couldn’t come back regularly. He would have to prioritize her over so many other things in life. Yet, he could afford it. “Yes, I think I will,” he replied. He scooted his chair next to hers and embraced her. “I’ll never let you go.” “Tell me that you love me,” she said. “I love you, Diana.” There's so many times I've let you downSo many times I've played aroundI tell you now, they don't mean a thingEvery place I go, I'll think of youEvery song I sing, I'll sing for youWhen I come back, I'll bring your wedding ring The cups rested empty on the table now. In the next room, they they were both on the couch with John’s arm around Diana’s shoulder, both looking through old pictures that they and their friends had taken together. “Hey look, here’s that one time we met that girl named Aristotle,” said Diana. “I don’t mind that name,” said John. “I actually like it.” “So if we had a girl, you would consider it?” “Would you?” “I guess I would.” John could feel himself sinking ever more deeply into the couch as he grew more relaxed. Somehow, the ideas that were coming to his mind weren’t intimidating him anymore. They were so easy to articulate, so easy to share. “Diana, when I come back, will you marry me?” “I’ll have to remember that this is how you proposed,” she said. “Do I get a ring?” “No, it was just a spur of the moment idea,” he confessed. “But I’ve thought about it. We’re both established. We’re both ready to settle down. We’re best friends. We’re stable people. And we love each other. In our adult capacity to know what love is, it’s making sense to me.” Diana leaned her head into his shoulder. “Yes, John. I will marry you.” John rested his head on hers. So kiss me and smile for me Tell me that you’ll wait for me Hold me like you’ll never let me go ‘Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane Don’t know when I’ll be back again Oh babe, I hate to go The next day John was at the airport. He had called all of his guy friends to let than know and Diana had called all of her gal friends to do the same. It was now officially confirmed. Everyone knew. The held each other’s hands as they walked through the airport, an engaged couple. They both wore their business clothes. He had on his black tie and trimmed suit and she was wearing a woman’s business suit. While it was true that they both had work that day, they also wanted to make these last few moments count for each other. This was dressier than their usual business attire. He turned to Diana before he got on. “I don’t know what to say without being overly romantic.” Diana hugged him. “I’m fine with ‘I love you.’” “I will love you. Always.” They pulled apart. John looked at his watch. The plane left at five in the morning, and four o'clock right now. Passengers were expected to get on the plan a half hour before it took off. He picked up his roller. They were right next to the flight terminal. With half an hour left, he didn't have to hurry, so he wasn't picking it up to get going. He pulled out from one pocket a cube-shaped, fuzzy case. “I bought this at the last moment,” he said. “It’s beautiful,” said Diana, before she even opened it up. Then she did open it up, and it was, of course, an engagement ring. The only thing that could perhaps be an unexpected touch was that it was aquamarine instead of diamond. Diana had been born one month too early for diamond. “Can you say it again, now that you’ve actually seen it?” “It’s beautiful,” she said. She kissed him in the cheek. “When will we see each other again?” “I’ll be back on the holidays,” said John. “I’ll send you letters every weekend. Whatever you do, though, don’t send me letters back starting with ‘Dear John…’’ He looked into her eyes. They matched the aquamarine gem around her finger. He rested his forehead against hers. For just a moment, he could sleep before getting on the flight, let his mind escape to those far off places that it desperately wanted to go, and just rejoice in the comfort she gave him. Now the time has come to leave you One more time, let me kiss you Close your eyes and I’ll be on my way Dream about the days to come When I won’t have to leave alone About the times I won’t have to say… John was leaving on a jet plan. He didn’t know when he would be back again. Looking at his schedule, he just knew he would miss the first few holidays. As the ground grew smaller, he rolled his head to face the window, and just let the ever-changing scenery to lull him asleep. Then he dreamed of Diana. After all this craziness, he could finally settle down. So kiss me and smile for me Tell me that you’ll wait for me Hold me like you’ll never let me go ‘Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane Don’t know when I’ll be back again Oh babe, I hate to go ‘Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane Don’t know when I’ll be back again Oh baby, I hate to go
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ANDREW FOUND A PICTURE OF HIMSELF HE NEVER RECALLED TAKING. What was more, he couldn't make sense of it. His hair in this picture was just a tad bit longer than he had ever grown it out, which wasn't very far. He never recalled wearing that striped shirt, nor dd he recognize the setting. What was this doing in his father's closet? He heard his father coming. He couldn't afford to be caught rummaging through his drawers. He put the picture in his shirt pocket and hid in the closet. For good measure, he tossed clothes on top of him. It wouldn't make a difference if he covered himself or not, though. If his father opened up the closet, he would be doomed. His father entered the room. There was a groan, the sound of tool being dropped to the ground. The Old Man mumbled and shifted through his stuff. There was a pause. Had he noticed that the drawers were open? Andrew's heart beat. An hour passed, and his father didn't leave the room. Andrew was trapped. He kept on reminding himself to control his breath, and the logical thing to do would be to go off to sleep to keep his nerves down, but if he was caught during a lull of attention he couldn't run out as fast as he could have. He would be vulnerable. Still more time passed. It seemed his father was taking a nap in the afternoon. Why did he always have to do that? Also, there was the question of whether or not he would notice Andrew's supposed absence. There had been no school today due to a teachers' meeting, but Dad didn't know about that, so he assumed Andrew was at school. He should have been home now. He would be making noise. His father was always a creeper who looked inside the room to see how Andrew was doing, whether he made noise or not. Then Andrew heard the sound of floorboard creaking the door opening, and his father walking through the living room. It sounded like he was checking his room. Since Andrew was light on his feet and only a hundred pounds, he cast the clothes off of him and opened the closet door just as he heard his father enter the living room, all the while closing the closet door to cover up his tracks better this time. He had only one chance at this. Father had left the door to his room open, and Andrew managed to make his way out into the living room. His father's back was to him. Andrew slipped through the kitchen and into the breezeway, where he crouched. He listened carefully, but from here he couldn't hear his father's movements. It was safe to assume that if he was careful, his father wouldn't hear him if he slipped through the door, either. Andrew left the house and jumped on his bike, which was hidden in the weeds of the backyard garden. He kicked off with his feet and peddled off, taking the emergency route of the gravel alleyway that ran down the middle of the block, connecting all of the backyards. And then he was far away from home. He took a detour to get to uptown, where his friend Trenton lived in a bright blue house with an actual driveway. He knocked at the door, and Mrs. Van Holland, Trenton's mother, answered the door. "Hello, Andrew!" said Mrs. Van Holland. "Trenton's upstairs playing video games." Andrew thanked her and ran to Trenton's room. It was filled with stuff on the wall and LEGO sets, along with all the coolest action figured. He was sitting on his bed, with his hair wet from a recent shower, and was busy playing a Mario game on his Gameboy Color. "'Sup, man?" said Trenton. "Hey, I have the money to buy that new game, Fallout," said Andrew. He pulled out a couple of Benjamin Franklins from his chest pocket. Trenton set down the Gameboy and leaned forward. "Nice!" It was better than nice. Two hundred dollars could get them several games. The best part was that Andrew's father wouldn't notice a thing, given how disorganized and cluttered his room was. Then Trenton added, "Hey, what's that in your pocket?" Andrew drew up his hand. "It's just a picture of me." "Let me see it," said Trenton. Andrew was hesitant, but he wasn't about to deny his best friend something. It would have been uncool. So he took it out of his pocket and let Trenton look at it. Without hesitation, Trenton said, "You look like a girl!" "I do not!" said Andrew. "Do to!" "Do not!" "Do too!" Andrew checked the picture again and hated to admit that his friend was right. At nine years old, he had a certain androgynous freshness about him and a roundness of face that had yet to mold itself into the features of a grown man. Combined with how this was clearly the longest his hair had ever been before he cut it last spring, he looked like a generic kid, indistinct from a girl or boy. He wished he could be a little cooler and more handsome, like he thought of Trenton, instead of pretty. He put the picture back in his pocket and looked defeated. "Chill, Andrew, I'm only teasing you," said Trenton. "Yeah, well I don't like it," said Andrew. "I'm sorry, man," said Trenton. "I just want to get those video games," said Andrew. "What are we going to do with the extra money?" "I don't know," said Andrew. "I'll save it for later." "Sure thing," said Trenton. "It's your money." They left Trenton's house, went to the local Wal*Mart, bought Fallout, and came back to Trenton's house to try it out. Unfortunately, it was single-player, so they had to take turns playing it and decided that they could spend more time shooting hoops in Trenton's driveway. They went out and lit up the porch light, playing basketball even after the sun went down. After a while, Andrew gathered up a sweat and it was time to stop. Besides, one could only stick to one activity for so long. "Hey Andrew, are you thinking of joining the basketball team when you get to middle school?" asked Trenton. "Sure," said Andrew. "We actually practice. The only question is whether I will be better than you." "No chance," said Trenton. "You'll be following me." "Then I'll be the second best on the team," said Andrew. "And I'll keep you on your heels, because I'm awesome." Andrew got down on his bottom and rested on the grass. He grabbed his sweaty shirt and tugged back and forth at its chest region, using it as a fan. He needed a shower. That really sucked because his father's shower didn't have a water softener and he ended up smelling worse coming out than going in. He was going to have to spend the night at his grandparent's house. Mrs. Van Holland opened the door. "Trenton, you'd better come back in and prepare for bed." "But mom, can I at least have supper?" asked Trenton. The Van Hollands were awesome. Half the time they had pizza for supper. That might have been today, too, except Trenton had gone with Andrew across town to visit Wal*Mart. Andrew really should have waited until the next day so that he could do that in the immediate afternoon instead of during the bad timing that came upon him today, and then he could have had supper with the Van Hollands so long as he lied about having his father's permission. "No, Trenton, now come inside. Andrew! You'd better go home before your father wonders where you're at!" "Alright, mom..."said Trenton, disappointed. "Yes, Mrs. Van Holland," said Andrew, playing the part of the role-model friend. Mrs. Van Holland smiled at him and waved him off on his merry way. He got on his bike, said goodbye to Trenton, and biked off. To the eastern 'burbs, where Grandpa and Grandma Penn lived. They were on his father's side, and they were far nicer than his dad, who was uncool and just plain didn't get him. When he came up to the front porch, he let the bike drop as he ran to the doorbell and rang with one long press of his thumb, letting it go on and on until one of them answered the door. Grandma Penn opened the door. "Andrew, what are you doing out so late?" "I'm sorry Grandma. I just lost track of time." "You're sweating like a bull," she said, and brought him in. Inside, Andrew saw his grandfather, a big, burly man, looking at a newspaper on the living room chair. He thought he was off the hook, but he didn't stand a chance with Grandpa Penn, who said at once the very last thing he wanted to hear. "Does your father know where you are?" Andrew's face flushed. He looked at Grandpa Penn with a dear-in-headlights look that gave away everything. Grandpa set down the newspaper, adjusted his suspenders. Trying to keep his innocence going for him, Andrew made up an excuse, "But I'm going to take a shower here. I don't want to smell in Dad's icky shower. Isn't that a good idea?" "Where have you been?" asked Grandpa. "I was at home with dad," said Andrew. "I was with him the whole time. I just decided to come over here for a shower." "Margaret..." said Grandpa. "Andrew," picked up Grandma. "You do smell. We'll show you the shower, but you can't go running off at night like this. Now for goodness sakes, that shirt smells. Let me remove this." She removed it. Meanwhile, Grandpa leaned over to the phone next to the chair and piked it up to call Andrew's father. Andrew was busted. Then Andrew took his shower, came out smelling nice, and Grandma had a blue shirt out and ironed for him. "And tomorrow's a school day, Andrew. You're going to have to wake up early and catch the bus. Oh, what are we going to do with you?" Grandpa was at the kitchen counter. He was looking down at a crumpled wad of dollars and scattered coins. It was the change left over from the video game. "Where did you get this money?" asked Grandpa. "I earned it," said Andrew. "I mowed Trenton Van Holland's lawn." "And they payed you a hundred dollar bill?" "Their family is rich," said Andrew. "And they really like me." "I'm giving this back to your father," said Grandpa. "And when he comes here, you're going to have to apologize to him for stealing from him." "But I really got that from my friend's house!" said Andrew. "I'm not stupid, you know." "Where is he, by the way?" said Grandma. She was right. Andrew's dad wasn't there yet. "He said to just wait a bit. It would take him a while to get ready. So I'm waiting. And Andrew will have to sit right here next to me." "You're terrible!" said Andrew. "You're just like Dad!" Grandpa took Andrew and put him on his knee. "Your father loves you more than you could know, and you're just too young to see it." "You're just saying that because that's what adults are supposed to say!" Grandpa just held him down while he squirmed, and Grandma went to the front door to wait for his father. He was still taking some time. After he had slowed down and retreated to a mode of skulking, Andrew noticed that his picture was in Grandpa's plaid shirt pocket. It was crinkled up from when it has been in his own while he was playing basketball, but he wanted to reach out and grab it. It felt like it belonged to him. The money maybe wasn't his, but he felt he had a right to the picture. His father didn't have a camera. Nobody ever took any pictures of him. It was special. "Grandpa, can I please have my picture back?" Grandpa reached into his pocket, as if just remembering that it was there. "You might as well." He placed it in Andrew's shirt pocket. Andrew took it out. "That's this, anyway? I don't remember taking this picture. Who was taking pictures, anyway?" he asked. "Nobody takes pictures in this family," said Grandpa. "It wasn't me. But this isn't a picture of you, anyway. This is a picture of your mother." "What? So it really is a picture of a girl?" Andrew now sat on Grandpa's lap in such a way similar to a child listening to a parent reading a story. Grandpa held out the picture so they could both see. "This was Ellen when she was your age. She changed when she got older. You look a lot like her." "That's my mom?" said Andrew. "Yes, you know what she looked like," said Grandpa. "Actually, no, I don't," said Andrew. Grandpa looked confused, and then sad. He sighed and shook his head. "That's right. They never took any pictures together when she was still alive. I believe your grandparents on your mothers side had a few wedding photos before they died, too, but your father wouldn't have any, save for some old stuff from her album. He must have something on hand to cling on to. He doesn't loom so much on the paste, though. He's very internal. I wouldn't expect this to be out much. I'm so sorry. I thought you knew what your own mother looked like." He sighed again. "Well now I just had a revelation." Andrew didn't feel the need to cry. He had never known his mother. The subject wasn't sad for him. However, it did feel odd, once he thought about it. Maybe other people could feel sad for him because they experienced something he had to miss out on. "Do you think I should give this to Dad?" "Maybe," said Grandpa. "Well, in this case, I think it's okay just once for you to take something from your father. Just ask him for it, though. I don't know what the story behind his reason for keeping this is. Maybe it's important that he keeps it. But you should know more about her sometime. I'm sure I have many stories to share with you." Stories. The Penn family tradition. They didn't keep collages of photographs to preserve memories: generations of knowledge passed down by word of mouth. To this day, though, Andrew had always heard of the things on his father's side of the family, and his father never had anything to tell him about his mother. He thought about it and decided he would like to hear them sometime. "The important thing that you know right now, Andrew, was that your father loved your mother, and your mother loved your father very much. She would want you to love him, too." "Do I have to?" "No, kid, but you ought to." From the kitchen window, the lights of Dad's pickup truck came in. He would put Andrew's bike in the trunk. Then his father came in and picked up Andrew off of Grandpa's lap. "Don't touch me..." said Andrew. He hated it when Dad assumed that he couldn't do stuff for himself. "Son," said Grandpa, referring for Andrew's dad, "take care of him. And also, one day you'll have to spend some time with me and your mother, alone. You can send Andrew off to his friend's house. I bet he can mow the lawn to make up for the money he spent, but what I think we really need to have is some of our old father-to-son time so you know how to be a genuine symbol for strength for your son." Andrew left as soon as he could and didn't want to hear the rest of the conversation. It was Grandpa just trying to negotiate a peace treaty. That's all those adults ever did. They didn't care about him, though. He left the house, got into Dad's truck, and cried. Why did everyone always have to side with Dad? Dad didn't care! He looked at the wrinkled picture of his mother at his age. Seeing her for the first time, and seeing such a radiant smile, she looked like the person who would care. He found himself really wishing he had known her mother and had more than just a picture to work with. Who cared about knowing some story when someone could have a whole other important person in his life? Dad got into the truck and drove off. Andrew sat on the far side and made sure he was close to the window. it was silent the whole way home. However, Andrew underestimated the wisdom of his grandparents. They taught his father as a child, and they would continue to teach his father. All he had to do now was to learn the lessons he was given from his late wife, whose story still lived on through him.
-
Dark Dreams A cold light dawns. He is alive again; unsure of where he is, but alive. He will have to figure this out. He has been asleep. For a long time. This he knows for certain. Something has kept him from awakening, only to finally decide to jolt him up. He ponders whether to thank or kill this person. In the distance, a large building emerges. A temple. Why is it here? Again, he is not sure. It stands before him, unmoving, as if to mock him for his incompetence. This does not seem right. Nothing has ever mocked him before. He remembers always being in control; once again uncertain, but the feeling is there. He walks towards the temple. Many inscriptions lay on its front. He does not understand many, but there is one that strikes him: Unity. Duty. Destiny. Of course, he does not care to figure out its meaning. It seems pointless. Getting out of this place is more important. All the same… He somehow feels a connection to it… like he has seen it before. The thought bothers him. Something is not right here. His gaze stays on the words for a long time before a loud noise suddenly shakes him out of it. As if in a dream, he moves toward it. It feels like he is in water, but he is moving. Nothing is there at first; then, in a bright flash, something else emerges. A large rounded stone, simple face etched up top. This he knows. It has been in his subconscious many times before. Something tells him it is important. The stone lays still, unconscious. Of course it cannot shift a muscle, ###### around. It is immobile. Yet it seems he is immobile too, made of some sort of metal. Very confusing. He is just about to go up to the stone to see what is up when a large KRAKOW interrupts his train of thought and it has grown dark. Too dark. Unnaturally dark, even. The thought scares him. He does not know whether to walk or run. The stone that was once lively beige has soon turned black, completely overshadowed by the darkness. Now he is indicted to run; however, despite his greater intentions, he stays put. He cannot help but be concerned. Any competent individual would think better of this. He actually inches towards the stone for a bit. The fact that such an innocuous object is now suddenly dark is alarming. His slow march is suddenly interrupted by one more object. This one is dark from the start. It is not comforting, either; jagged skin and blood red eyes line its skin. He stays his ground. Crimson light is soon upon him, staring as if to say, “I know you are here.” Then it actually speaks. Laughs, even. He is angered; nothing has ever mocked him like that. Something inside him tells him to blast this freak in the chest, show him what he is worth, but he does not have the means to do so. The shadowy figure continues to mock him. Its voice is deep, grating, and chills his very soul. What should he do? He knows this guy is dangerous, but it seems there is nothing he can do to- Wait. Who are those people? They have different colours, red and black and blue and green and brown. Yet they appear similar to him. This is confusing. Are they his cousins? Brothers? Is he a robot? They stare at each other for a minute, each examining the other. He finds himself looking deep into piercing pink eyes. He has never felt any strong emotions before now, but he quickly finds himself… jealous. This red man must go. The red man surprisingly feels the same. He looks angry for a moment, annoyed probably with him; then a blue girl is on him, her hand on his shoulder. He nods then gestures to the others to follow him. They are going to take the shadow out. The robots walk towards the dark stone. It gazes at them, rubies bloodshot as ever. It does not show on its face, but it is angry. Irritated. Smug. He will have the first shot. They stand before it. It is still. The red man points up. “We will take you down!” he yells. It continues to be still. The robot growls before pulling out some weapon. A sword. He realizes that he probably has the same weapon, as do the others. His is not exactly like the red man’s. It is longer and more streamlined. He also has a curved piece of metal- a shield! That will be useful. The red man shouts out some commands and everyone aims their weapons. Nothing happens for a while. The villain does nothing; then, in barely a second, it flinches. Then it is on them. A large beam of coloured light has only barely pierced its rocky skin before it has been overpowered by a large shadow. His breath catches in his throat. This was not supposed to happen. They were supposed to use their weapons to dismantle this evil rock, the scoundrel who had defeated the stone. How could it have won? Red man freezes. He is obviously unnerved as well. For a moment, he looks at the shadow as well; then, he gestures at the others to fall back. It takes a bit of effort to escape the suction the rock has created, but before long everyone has fled. The robots enjoy their success, if only for a bit. They run through the piercing blackness. It is no longer light; the only source of illumination is their brightly coloured eyes. Before long it is upon them. It has managed to fly. How this occurred is unknown. It, once again, is silent for a while. Then it attacks. A simple shake at first, then a violent tremor. The same shadow is upon them. He cannot do anything. He tries to do something, but find this impossible. He does not know why- he tries to figure out, but his thoughts are soon overwhelmed by darkness. His mind is no longer happy. They had not been particularly cheerful before, but these new feelings felt… unnatural, gloomy and sinister. At first he finds himself on a beach, enjoying the sun and sand, only to be swept away in a tornado. Then he is on top of a volcano and ends up being pushed in. A lake, drowning. A mountain, hypothermia. The worst thought of all occurs in another chamber. He does not recognize this very well, but a vague splinter of his brain seems to remember. Things are not dark here; a strange blue substance provides light. They stand together on a circle. The green one smiles. He is happy. This should cheer up everyone, but it does nothing. The rock has corrupted their brain. A larger robot stands before them on another circle. She is not happy. In fact, she seems angry. At what he does not know. She opens her mouth to speak, then stops. She smiles slyly. When her mouth opens again, it is black. She releases black. Soon everything is dark. He does everything he can to fight off this shadow, but is unsuccessful. This lady is just too strong. It does not seem fair. He must be able to do SOMETHING. But alas… He cannot. He is soon assaulted by visions. Beside him, the others convulse, shaking in fear. They must have been possessed as well. He is compelled to feel a small tinge of sadness for them. Right before his eyes, bad things take place. The people he has met are violently dismembered. It is too gruesome for him to take note of. Soon, he finds others are being destroyed- houses, animals, smaller robots- Children. This should not be allowed. The rock is a madman. It is murdering children. Surely he can stop this? He pleads. It should not be happening. The slashfest continues. He finds the robots being sliced apart again. The large one, even though she has really done nothing wrong, is crushed. The smooth stone is thrown up and smashed to pieces. And that is only for them. He is not so lucky. The shadows do nothing at first. He stands still, unmoving, and gazes at them. They are at least grateful to give a silent “hello” at first. Then they hiss and strike. It is surprising to him to find that being consumed by darkness is actually not so bad. The mind feels a pain at first, a sting at the loss to its morality, then… nothing. Only lightness. It is wrong. No. It is wrong. He liked the stone. This is injustice! The rock was a great man. It did many good things for its people. He thinks he will serve him- No. He is black now. Everyone else is too. Even the chamber is. Beyond, a small animal lays dangling. He can do nothing. No. The rock will save this one. He knows it. He must. He- No! Soon whatever the animal was hanging on snaps. It falls and is dead before it hits the floor. He should feel sadness at this, anger; there is only happiness. A threat to Makuta’s domination is gone. SSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Kopaka. NO! BUMP. Serve me. NO! HSSSSSSSS. He falls to the ground now, defeated. You are mine. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! BOOOM! *** He wakes up. A cold light dawns. He is alive again; unsure of where he is, but alive. He will have to figure this out. I have slept for so long now, he thinks. My dreams have been dark ones. He is not whole. That he knows for certain. His parts lay broken, scattered across the ground. The sand. Can he pick them up? He reaches over in experimentation. A small touch at first, then a large lunge. He receives nothing. This concerns him. He tries again, harder this time. He will not remain in this canister forever. It is a bit of a stretch, but soon- He gets it! An arm. It helps much, though. He is soon able to start rebuilding himself. He does not know how or why he was destroyed. But now I am awakened. A mask lies by his feet. It is cold metal, stark silver in contrast to the golden sand. Stupid to say, but he feels it is important. After all, why would it be there in the first place? He goes on his hunch and puts it on. It works. Blinking readings soon pop up in his vision. My mask, he realizes. He has used this before. It seems too useful to not be. There is only one last joint to go before he is fully normal again. An arm. Now the scattered elements of my being are being rejoined. For a moment, he is unsure. What will putting it on do? Allow him to move around? Where will he go? What will he do? Then he realizes. That is not important. What IS important is finding out who this… Makuta character is and putting a stop to his evil. He knows that man cannot be a vision. He… Kopaka… knows that such actions are too true to be false. He may have been dreaming, but the content is real. Now I am whole. Kopaka stands up. He will not let Makuta get away with this. And the darkness cannot stand before me. *** I honestly have no idea where this came from. Somebody on BZP was discussing what the heck was happening in the dreams mentioned in the beginning of the series, and then somebody suggested it might have been the Toa's subconscious influencing them before they woke up. And that inspired me. Then I wrote this. I am a dark, dark person, I know. That is Bionicle #1 dialogue at the end, there. So I suppose this fits into canon. Somehow.
