Preparation Final Poll

[Velox]

Vote here for your favorite Preparation story. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on June 23rd at 11:59 PM EST. The entry with the most votes will be the winner of the Preparation theme and will then be either judged or polled against the winners of the other themes.

1. "Ever Up" He opened the door wide on creaking hinges, letting the orange light of evening spill across the floor of the hut. The windows followed, shutters flapping open in the breeze that was just now rising over the empty prairies from the north. It blew gently through the hut as he busied himself with other matters, shuffling about on aching knees. First, he swept. A slow task with the thatch-broom that he always kept in the corner. Dust rose in little clouds as he worked, glinting in the sunlight before the wind snatched it up and away. When that was finished, he turned to the furniture. Not much: only a wooden table and chair. These he dusted, straightening the small collection of books on the tabletop, and put away the pewter dishes that lay scattered about. They would be useless to him on the journey. He smiled faintly, though, as he touched the books. They were dear to him. He would miss them. Next, he hobbled outside, leaning on a stick that he had used for many years. Rounding the hut, he made his way up the hillside behind. There, he looked upon the pens of sheep and goats that he had tended for so long. A hermit must keep himself busy, after all, and what else was there to do on the open prairie but tend the animals and read and think? What more indeed? He wheezed a bit as he stooped to lift the latch of the main pen. The gate swung open, and he tied it to a stake so it would not shut. Within, the livestock shuffled around but did not leave the safety of the pen. They held together, looking back at him with dark eyes. Sad eyes. He smiled at them, always grateful for their simple, silent company. The descent from the hill was harder in the twilight. The hut seemed grey now, thatched with colorless reeds, fluttering in the wind. He stopped when he reached the door again, looking out into the distance. South, he looked, and then west. The wind stung his eyes as he turned to the north, and he shielded them with one trembling arm. Soon, now. Soon he would go. The thought sent a shiver through his aged body, and suddenly he wept, for he was lonely. Here in the desolation of the prairie, with only the sheep and goats to keep company, he was lonely at last. He had chosen this solitary life for himself, but now…now he longed for something else. He longed for speech and company…warmth on a cold night. Soon he would go. Yes, very soon, and he was ready. His hand gripped the wooden stick tightly as he turned from the door, leaving it thrown open to the prairie and the fading sun. With faltering steps he moved towards the chair, wheezing as he lowered himself into it. He wore a weathered cloak, and on his feet were traveling boots. Now all was prepared. Yes, now was the time. The hermit lay back as the sunlight fell away, and night crept up from the west. His eyes closed… …and abruptly he went out…out from the sheltered place into that greater night where there are no stars. A dry land, with dark hills rising to a darker sky… But above those hills, fitful and half-lost in the darkness, it seemed that a pale light flickered faintly. Now suddenly he started forward on strengthening limbs, casting aside the walking stick, for he may now climb those deathly hills without weariness…climbing…climbing ever up. Ever up, toward the light.

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2. The Beckoning of Space No matter what any mere landlubber told you to the contrary, space was indeed the last frontier. The endless void beckoned citizens to literally reach for the stars, to solve the problem of surviving the vast journey of light-years from planet to hopefully habitable planet. Here, the views were breathtaking, even through the tiny, reinforced windows that looked upon the sheer, empty blackness of space. Of course they knew there were things out there: stars, planets, comets, asteroids, black holes, dark matter, etc. It was incredibly hard to imagine, though. The closest humanity had ever gotten was throwing out unmanned probes to take pictures of faraway places. Some cynics doubted humankind's ability to ever send people out to Mars, even, as hibernation techniques had always failed and travel faster than light was fiction. But there were still dreamers. The dreamers that held onto their dreams when they grew up became the astronauts and cosmonauts which inhabited this space station, currently circling somewhere high above India. The romanticized version of space travel was laughable to the astronauts. Gravity on ships, sound in space, and faster than light travel were all tropes that were adopted by the population of Earth as ostensible fact. Even the relatively simple task of going extravehicular involved tedious steps. He had about half the suit on right now, and his comrades were busy floating around him, assembling and checking the individual bits of the complex space armor. It was tedious beyond all imagining, but hey, at least it had air conditioning. As any human being would, he would have not been able to take the process of putting on a spacesuit if he didn't have so much to think about. That was another thing: in space, you had to think. If you didn't think, you endangered yourself and everyone else onboard. Even when immobile, he had work to do in the form of intense mental preparation. You see, this was to be his first jaunt into space, and even the veterans of extravehicular activity thought it daunting. In space, Newton's Third Law was your best friend. If you were too far away from the vehicle, you can't really get yourself back, so you have to hurl something in the opposite direction. The equal and opposite reaction generated would throw you back to the vehicle, and back to safety. In space, you had to check your oxygen constantly. In space, you had to know your limits of energy and time. In space, the sun's weather predicted activity. Solar storms could make an astronaut sick from radiation, possibly starting cancer. In space, you had to be aware of tiny meteorites that constantly pelted your suit. Just one in the right place still had the capacity to incapacitate. All of these things, and more, were running through his head, vying for attention. He slowed down, focusing on whatever happened to come to his mind first: He'd be in space. Space. That was his dream. Space. Before he was aware of it, his helmet had been locked on. "You ready?" asked the earpiece in his helmet. He answered to the affirmative in a slightly wavering voice. No matter how much time he had to go through his preparation, he still felt like he was unprepared. Sweat dropped off of his eyebrows, defying the air conditioning. But he also knew that right now was as good of a time as any. Space. Stepping into the airlock, he waited, his final mental preparations sprinting through his head. Space. The air was sucked from its lock, and a second later, the doors opened soundlessly. Space. -------

3. Departure I looked at the suitcase resting on my bed, its interior packed with everything I would need in the coming months. I had spent the last few weeks repeating an endless cycle of planning, packing, checking, re-planning, and re-packing, but now I finally felt as if I was ready to leave. Well, almost ready; I still had to say goodbye to my friends and family. Saying my farewells had been the part I least looked forward to. In fact, you could say I had dreaded it for the past few weeks. I already knew what they would say, but that wouldn’t make things any easier. Saying goodbye is never easy. I left my room, intending to get a drink of water before returning to my sulk in my room. Unfortunately, the moment I stepped foot in the kitchen what seemed like a swarm of people descended upon me. I’d been captured by the enemy, and would soon be forced to endure all manner of horrible interrogation techniques. For the next few minutes, I warded off question after question in my desperate attempt to first relieve my thirst and return to my room. Eventually, my captors decided it was a lost cause and allowed me to make a retreat, an act I took no hesitation in participating in. When I had returned to my room, I sat down on my bed and stared at the television absentmindedly. As boring as it was, it was still better than saying goodbye, I decided. Eventually, though, I knew I would have to say farewell. All my packing had been an attempt to delay that moment for as long as possible, but it had finally arrived. No matter how I might have felt about it, the indisputable truth was that it was something I had to do. I had to leave properly, or not at all. It was time to say goodbye. Goodbye to the house I had grown up in. Goodbye to the friends I had made. Goodbye to the family I cherished. Goodbye to my childhood. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, it was also time to say hello. Hello to new friends. Hello to new opportunities. Hello to difficult times. Hello to adulthood. I was entering a new part of my life, but I was still reluctant to let go of the past. Goodbye. It was all I could manage to say, even in my own thoughts. Goodbye. ------

4. All of the Pieces Needed is paper, the canvas of the writer. The place where thoughts come alive. A blank expanse that awaits to be molded based upon thought and idea, a world just waiting to be formed. It can contain the great stories of heroics and bravery, of love and emotion, of darkness and of terror. It desires only the hands of those who have an thought that can be expanded, an idea that needs to be preserved. It is merely a pad of paper, but it can become so much more, so much greater. It sits on the desk, laying open, awaiting the words of a land formed by imagination. Needed is a pencil, the tool from which words are formed. The tip holds the power of creation, the ability to design anything that the mind can see. It can be a weapon, starting wars, bringing death and violence. It can be a tool of beauty, creating lands that inspire and awe. It can cause depression or joy, tears or laughter. It is a mighty tool in the hands of one who wishes to write. It sits beside the paper now, awaiting the hand that will use its power, to stir the emotions of others, and leave a lasting impression on those who feel the words. Needed is an eraser, the reverse of the mighty pencil. It can destroy all that the pencil makes, undoing what has already been set. It can fix the slightest of errors, or dissolve entire portions of a world. A battle can be undone, to have never happened. A character can cease to exist, remaining nothing but a passing memory. It can repair the damage of war, or undo the happiest of endings. It now stands silently beside its opposite, waiting for the chance that its abilities to change the past be required. Needed is the hand of a writer, the force that allows the pencil to create, and the eraser to wipe clean. The hands that fill the paper with creation and imagination, that guide the creation of worlds. They hold the power to bring the pencil to paper, and bring hope and sorrow to those who live within the words. They steer each thought into place, and should one thought strike against the flow, remove it with the eraser. They sit aside the paper, one to the right, one to the left. They await the beginning of a new tale from the mind of their owner. Needed is inspiration, the most valuable tool of all. It can not be prepared as the others, it arrives only when it wishes, bringing with it the path that the story must travel. Without it, there is no need for the pencil and paper, there is no world to create. The eraser lays in silence, having nothing to repair. The hands sit motionless, doing nothing but wait, hoping that the inspiration will arrive and allow them to begin. There is no way to control it, only to harness it and use it to form great works of the mind. It can vanish for days, leaving a writer to struggle, or it can arrive like a great energy, compelling the hands, steering the pencil, and creating realms based upon dreams and nightmares. It can come from the strangest of places, the smallest of sources. It can be awakened by the most amazing of events, or merely the preparation to write. With all of these wondrous tools brought together, imagination can be unleashed. -------

[Sumiki]

Whoa, I made it to the final here? Sweet.Two, my own.

[fishers64]

I'm going for 4.

[Ballom Nom Nom]

Number four is a pretty darn awesome entry, and thus earned my vote once again.~B~

[Velox]

Hard choice between #1 and #4. I liked the idea behind #4 better, but I enjoyed the writing of #1 better. Ended up going with 4.

[Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa]

#4 was great, and I was tempted to vote for it; but ultimately I liked #1 better for writing and story. #4 was beautiful and magical, but it was a statement, a description, not a story.

Sincerely, Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

[Velox]

Polling period over; poll closed.