NationStates Jolt Archive

I'd like to propose to one and all a writing challenge for NationStates. I invite everyone to write an original piece of fiction and post it here. I'm not looking to declare winners or losers, merely to showcase talent. If you think your writing is hot stuff, or if you have people telling you that you write good, then give us a sample here.

I propose a simple set of rules:

Please limit the length of your story to 5000 words or less (sorry, GMC).
If you're going to post something graphic like horror or extreme violence, please include a warning at the beginning of the story.
As this site is frequented by minors, it would be best to avoid graphic descriptions of sexual acts.
Please write original fiction, something that isn't set in or borrowed from existing work like Star Wars and the like.
Please post only one submission to the challenge; we don't want the thread dominated by only a few people.

I'm attempting to make this proposal without bias or prejudice. I have a select group of forum members whose writing I like, but there are plenty others I've never been exposed to before, and others whose personalities I clash with. I'm requiring myself to drop all preconceptions and read without consideration for the author, merely the content. This thread can be used to critique original works or not, depending on levels of interest or the author's wishes.

I'm in. I'm writtig a paper now, and it comes first, but once I'm done, I'll put something up for this.

The village was blacked out. Nothing stirred. Not surprising considering it was 0345 local time. The village of Kulam in Afghanistan was in the middle of a plain criss-crossed by a wadi system and high cliffs. The sky was overcast, with the moon only shining in certain areas. Everywhere was pitch black, except for those patches of light. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows, moving slowly forward at a crouch. In his hands was a SOCOM M4A1, the classic U.S Navy SEAL assault rifle. The weapon was dulled, and the man’s face was painted in black. The only defining feature was the jungle hat on his head. Underneath was just the faintest touch of blond hair.
He stopped, scanning the area. The muzzle followed his eyes. After he had checked the area thoroughly, he raised his hand, and signalled swiftly. Out of the shadows emerged five other figures, all carrying weapons, and all with blacked out faces. Three were men, but the last two were obviously women. One of the men carried a silenced sniper rifle, the others all had carbines and rifles. Despite their dishevelled appearance, they were intensely alert, their eyes wide and bright. Ahead lay their target, the village of Kulam, or to be more precise, the hostages they had been tasked with recovering. Despite protracted efforts, Al-Queda was still a threat. They had captured a unit of World Government peacekeepers, and were holding them hostage in return for the release of many of their kindred as they called them. This team of soldiers had been told that they were to be the ones to rescue these peacekeepers. Intel had pinpointed their location to this village, and for the past week, this unit had been watching and planning their attack.
They advanced slowly, in two groups of three. As they approached the village they all went to ground, checking the ground ahead. Using his starlight scope, the sniper scanned the horizon slowly and methodically. After a few minutes, he raised his thumb. The blond man nodded, and took his group forward, to the first group of buildings. As he reached it, the other group, led by the only black man in the unit, moved forward as well. As they reached the buildings, they too halted, watching and listening. After what seemed like an age, but was in fact barely a minute, the blond crouched, and reached into his webbing. In the top of one of the bags, slung on his back, was a pair of PNG’s (Passive Nightvision Goggles). He slipped these on, and everything took on a green hue. The quiet, high-pitched whine came into his ears, and as well as the green hue, his vision became tunnel, singular. As if on que, the others reached into their bags, taking out PNG’s or kite-sights, which are basically black tubes that clip onto to the top of weapons, and then operate just like a normal sight, except with the night vision capability.
With these in place, the team moved forward slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. The village was quiet as death, and nothing stirred. That suited these guys just fine, as they didn’t know for sure where the peacekeepers were being held. After maybe ten minutes of sweeping the village, one of the women, now leading the group, froze. Ahead was a building, not unlike the others. The only difference was that this had a solid door, and a brand new padlock on it at that. The windows were small, and it was isolated from the other buildings by a good fifty feet in every direction. She held up her hand, and pointed. Looking round, she saw the others nod. This must be the place.
Slowly, another man, dark-haired, carrying a M16, moved forward, covered by the black man. They closed on the building, whilst the others threw a hasty perimeter around the block, one on each corner. Pausing by one of the windows, the first man glanced inside. This was definitely it. He tapped on the brickwork and whispered, in a thick New York accent, “Hey, you in there!”
“Yeah, who are you?” came the reply
“Whisky Golf rescue force, are you the peacekeepers?”
“Too right, took your time didn’t you!” floated an indignant reply, probably a squaddie.
“Sorry lads, but we’ll have you out in a second”
He held up a thumb, and nodded. His companion got to work picking the lock. It didn’t take long, and within a few minutes the door had swung open. Moving quickly, they got the prisoners into a nearby building, which the others had moved to secure. Once inside, they sat them down, and the other woman, obviously the patrol medic, began a brief physical examination of the men. After a while, she stood, and pulled the blond man to the side.
“James, these people can barely walk, let alone tab across the desert. We need a vehicle”
“I think there was one over the other side of the village, but it’ll be guarded.”
“It’s our only hope of getting these people out alive,” she stressed, gripping his arm.
“As soon as we start that thing up, the shit is going to hit the fan, in a big way!”
“ I know that, we just need to be ready.”
He considered for a second, then decided, “OK, Matt and Sarah, you’re with me. The rest of you stay here. We’re gonna recce that vehicle. If its viable we’ll push it here, and then load up and get out of here.”
At his words, the demolitionist and the first woman stood up, and they slipped out into the growing light. It was by now 0415. They didn’t have long.
As they closed on a garage, the only one in the village, they moved carefully. They slowly checked it, but again, no one seemed to be around. Unfortunately, the jeep they had seen earlier, during that observation time, was no-where to be seen. They moved away, falling back to the collection point. Again, the team gathered round, discussing their now very limited options.
“We could call in a helicopter extraction,” said the black man, his eyes wide.
“Yeah, but we’d be out there defending a crashed chopper if we did,” shot back the woman who had led them in.
“Hey, we could ask. I don’t see why HQ wouldn’t send in a MH-60 (Black Hawk). That could get us all out. Send in a couple of AC-130 Spectre gunships and we’re sorted,” quipped up the sniper, covering the street to the east.
“Ok, it’s settled. I’ll radio in, say we have the hostages, and request extraction. If we don’t get it, then we’ll have to find another way,” the blond man spoke up, removing his jungle hat for the first time that night, and running his hand through his hair, which hung to his shoulders.
The next morning, with HQ having said that they would have sent a MH-60 with escort, the tension within the building was slowly becoming unbearable. Their fingers were itching at weapons, waiting for the off. Suddenly, the steady thump of a Black Hawk followed by the sharp drone of an AC-130 gunship. It came from the west, and passed low over the village. The flare they had set exploded, sending plumes of red smoke skywards. The Hawk flared, and came in for landing. As soon as its wheels touched the ground, they moved out.
Everything moved in slow motion. As they crossed the open ground, a whoosh was heard. Turning his head, the blond man saw a missile climb, climb… and then contact. The gunship exploded, the ammunition taking it out with a tremendous bang. The blast knocked the team flat, just as small arms fire erupted from the buildings, coming from the roofs. Two of the peacekeepers went down instantly, their wounds fatal.
“MOVE! GO GO GO!” yelled the blond man, grabbing the nearest peacekeeper and moving him towards the still grounded Black Hawk. As he reached it, he saw the others getting bundled in. He motioned to his team that they would run out. They all nodded back, and then started to lay rounds down. Everywhere they fired, men dropped. The two girls ran to the dead peacekeepers, pulling the limp bodies to the Hawk. With these inside, they waved the chopper off, and then started retreating, three at a time, Rounds were snapping close, most likely AK-47 rounds. The weapons of the team flared, dropping more people everytime. The black man had his weapon set to automatic, unloading his magazines quickly. They eventually got back to where they had stashed their Bergen’s, where they stopped for a quick drink.
“Bloody hell, dunno how we managed that”
“Who cares, now we gotta get out of here”
With that, the group set off into the featureless Afghan desert, melting away…

Please limit the length of your story to 5000 words or less (sorry, GMC)..

Graaagharragh.

The story is called "Extraction Point Cakewalk" and is available here: http://www.deviantart.com/view/12325471/

And it's 5,269 words. Deal with it.

oooh, I have a story which I've written before - I posted it on Skyehawk, but there was a pathetic amount of reviews - the fanfic peeps only ever read angsty draco/harry slash anyway :P

But, well, I'll link to it anyway in the vague hope of feedback.

http://archive.skyehawke.com/story.php?no=4183

oooh, I have a story which I've written before - I posted it on Skyehawk, but there was a pathetic amount of reviews - the fanfic peeps only ever read angsty draco/harry slash anyway :P

But, well, I'll link to it anyway in the vague hope of feedback.

http://archive.skyehawke.com/story.php?no=4183

The ending is pretty humorous, and the writing is solid, but it reads like a joke that takes way too long to get to the punchline. The "reads like a joke" part is a compliment, though, because it's hilarious.

The ending is pretty humorous, and the writing is solid, but it reads like a joke that takes way too long to get to the punchline. The "reads like a joke" part is a compliment, though, because it's hilarious.

wheee, thanks for the feedback! *hugs* Funny is good. Funny was my main, and indeed only, aim.

Imitora, I liked what you put out. I sometimes do my writing around songs myself. Quite motivational I must say...

This compels me to dig around and find one of my stories sitting around in the twisted wires that compliment my jury-rigged laptop lol! Therefore, this has been an official
><[TAG]><

The wind howled about, whipping the trench coat of Travis Clarke, as he stood in the park alone. Few others dared to move about in such a miserable night with the rain pounding upon the earth relentlessly. Despite the storm brewing overhead, Travis seemed uninhibited, unaffected by any of it. He looked out over the bay, watching the lights shimmer across the water. He sighed. His mind was filled with so many burdens, so many things to worry about. He was only twenty-one years old, and he felt twice that.

Walking to a nearby tree, he leaned back against the tree, and slid down to the earth, ignoring the wet ground underneath him. It didn’t matter; he was soaked to the bone already. His attention was drawn to a small personal boat that sped inland, following the wake markers. He could see himself as that boat, fighting the surging tides, the rising waves, and the relentless rain.

So this is what adulthood is like. God, I wish I could go back to the days of being a child, and just letting Mom and Dad take care of it all. Yet, I never gave them the appreciation for weathering the storm. I was the child in the boat, hidden in the cabin. They were the boat captains. They navigated the waves and kept their eyes upon the lighthouse. Even when the occasional massive wave struck them, they kept going, never giving up…

Travis looked down at his hand upon his knee, studying his worn fingers, covered in scars and already wrinkled with age. He could remember the early years, the years when he was a child. Playing in the park, going to friends’ houses to play video games or just simply build Legos and create stories and adventures with them. He could remember the wood ‘forts’ they “found” in the surrounding community, in the woods. He could remember when all he had to worry about was doing his chores and doing his homework on time, as well as making good grades in school.

Now, he had more to bear upon his shoulders. His family had watched as he walked out of the house to begin his journey through college. How naive and carefree he had been even then. Even when he had car insurance and cellular payments to make, he had been relatively untouched, oblivious to the harsh realities of his life he had so much endured in merely the last three years alone. His first year, he found a freedom he loved, a freedom of being away from the ever watching eyes of his parents. Socialism. He craved it, desired it so much that he neglected his education, which he was determined to become a pediatric doctor. His GPA at the end of the year devastated him, and brought some realities to life as he watched all the scholarship money he worked so hard for, simply fall away.

What takes mankind ten years to build, can only require ten minutes to destroy…

Over the next year, he changed his major, having also realized that becoming a doctor wasn’t something he wished to do for his career, although it would have been lucrative and would have challenged his mind. He desired to follow something he had always known he had a love for, the fine arts. His second year, he raised his GPA to an acceptable level, but still, he had continued his old habits of the previous year. He failed another class in the spring semester, much to his chagrin.

Now he was in the middle of his third year, almost done with the first semester. Once again the threat of his old habits loomed nearby, his addiction for socialism now somewhat under control. Life had taken a hard right hook at him with the college loan he had been forced to take onto his name in his second year, and this year, his grandmother had willingly agreed to help with his tuition and housing. This alone had so far kept him remembering why he was there, but it didn’t diminish his outlook on life right now.

The boat motored its way through the inlet, heading into the nearby North Sea. On one end of that sea, his grandmother’s house stood, built long before his time by his grandfather. It was a typical New York home, three stories, and yet it seemed to have a sense of home that he never found anywhere else. It had become a historical sight of his hometown, at least for those familiar with the house.

Standing once again, Travis looked sullenly at the water, briefly entertaining the thought of diving in and just swimming out as far as he could. He decided against it, for he knew that the cold waters of New York were not to be trifled with, especially in a storm such as this. He walked back to his uncle’s Jeep Wrangler, borrowed so he could simply “get away from it all”. Getting in, he started the engine, and drove carefully out toward the road, heading back toward the house.

OOC: Here's the intro part of a story I'm kinda developing. It's around 800-900 words, well beneath your limit you've set. I'm actually not sure where I'm going to go with this. I've been toying around with some ideas. In time, I shall return to this and post some more as soon as I create it.

Cool. Let me cook something up here...

5,000 words? Ack!

I'll post something later today, this should be rather cool.

Live and let die 2.0

Live and let die

That was the motto of the Central Academic Hospital in Utrecht. And the hospital management tried to live up to that motto with uncanny efficiency. On Christmas eve, the year was almost over and the hospital had almost reached it’s government quota of putting 35.000 people to death through voluntary euthanasia.

A decorative plastic christmas tree –standard hospital issue- reminded Central Coordinator Verhofstra that the year had already progressed this far. In his head, he counted the faceless number staring at him from his computer screen: 32.814 people had filled in the standard compressed form for euthanasia or had close relatives who had done it for them this year in his hospital. 32.713 had been processed so far.

He counted the remaining days in his head – mentally taking account that there would still be plenty of cases when the massive fireworks would go off – but this time he did not find his comfort in numbers. There were targets to be met, he considered, if the hospital wanted to retain it’s class A++ rating and with the perpetual drive to lower spending, cuts to his departments were inevitable as it was. Also on his desk were letters from the medi-corporations and insurance organisations exerting pressure on the hospitals for more efficiency.

Verhofstra left his office and went downstairs, to one of the wards. He had been a nurse, decades ago, and still was allowed to perform nursing duties in emergencies. "and heck, this is an emergency", he thought to himself. The Central Coordinator wandered through the hospital at a leisurely pace, watching the personnel do their jobs with dedication. The wards in this section were mostly filled with elderly people who had all kinds of little problems that come with age.

The Central Coordinators eye fell on an old lady with thin white hair who was lying in a hospital bed. Her wrinkled face was in a painful grimace. He sat down next to her, offering to help

“Oh, Sir, I just want it all to end – the pain. It’s just too much for me to handle,” she pleaded.

“That can be arranged”, the Central Coordinator replied. He reached out to a small console lying next to the bed, pressing a few buttons. The drugs started to work fast – and the granny became more relaxed. “She seems very happy", Verhofstra thought, "Bonifatius Incorporated is getting better at this stuff all the time” , he told himself mildly surprised at the speed at which the effects kicked in. Without the drugs, the woman would probably be in great pain. But not here – in his hospital there was no pain. Pain had been eradicated.

“Are you sure you want this?”, he asked. The woman nodded, and Verhofstra got out the pre-prepared standard euthanasia form he kept with him for emergencies. He wanted to hand it over, but then he noticed that the woman’s hands, - which had been shaking at first - were now completely calm. “you stupid ass”, he cursed himself. Obviously she was in no state to fill in the form herself now.

“I can fill in the form for you,” he said as he pulled it up and got out his pen. The woman nodded again, a smile on her face that was pleased with the helpfulness of the doctor. With the speed that comes with experience, the Central Coordinator filled in the form in record time. By forcing the pen in her now completely relaxed hand, he managed to get a little scribble. (“with a little assistance - thats allowed”)

In his desire for quick processing of the patient – after all, you can hardly have her wait the legally compulsory three days over Christmas - he detached the bed from the wall and drove her down the hallway of the hospital. After a short trip through the hospiral, he stopped as he passed a door resembling an airlock, with the omnious label: ‘Endings Room #3’

Inside, a middle-aged woman, barely in her forties, lay in a brightly decorated chamber. Instead of the uncaring hospital white, this room had been painted in more soothing colours. A heavenly blue, with flying cherubim’s playing on clouds, as a preparation of what might come perhaps– a promise perhaps. A decorative plastic christmas tree had been put on the far side of the room by someone with an appalling lack of taste.

A man of about his age (“probably the husband”) sat next to the woman. He was obviously very emotional, the former nurse noted with professional detachement . The women’s face, however, had an expression of endless bliss. With a smile on her face, she stared into infinity. Obviously the enhanced morphine and other drugs had already kicked in.

”No wonder we are not making the targets”, he told himself, “If the Endings Rooms are all used as visitor centres.”

He moved on with his mobile bed to the adjoining Endings Room #4, which had an identical setup. He placed the bed against the wall so that the cherubim ceiling was nicely arranged for the woman.This room fortunately lacked a plastic christmas three. Efficiently and without undue delays, the Central Coordinator made the neccecery preparations. With a last nod to the woman, he closed the door which then sealed itself airtight. The hissing of the gas, and the pulsating red light above the door indicating that the gas chamber had to remain closed while in operation were the only things to remind anyone outside the room what was going on.

Satisfied with his productive little trip, the Central Coordinator went back to his office to finish his essay for hospital Central Coordinators abroad:

”Knootian hospitals, instead of being places of needless suffering, are places were patients can find relief. They are fortresses of freedom. We do not patronise our patients, we give them a choice. The ultimate choice.

I do not share the concerns that outsiders have voiced about euthanasia practices in Knootoss. After all, if people are able to decide how they live, why should they not decide how they die? Is that not, ultimately, what freedom is?”

The First Two Entries In The Great Book of Destiny As Written By Martin of The Greif, and Which Original Work Is Kept At The Cathedral of The Rune Smattered Maiden In Greifsgrad.

Christmas Day, 1066

There is much to write, and I know not where to begin. The things I have seen and experienced early this morning must be committed to paper. A document must be done, so that my children and my children’s children may know that our fledgling Dynasty is of Divine Destiny, and that they must endeavor to fulfill this destiny no matter the cost. God has blessed me with a vision, and I know in my heart that it will not be the last. I am Martin of the Greif, son of Andre, son of Zygmunt, Duke of all Pommeranian Christians. This is my Testament.

Twas in the early hours of the morning that I returned to my abode from a prolonged Midnight Mass in celebration of the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. I did tether my steed and cross my portal when a most peculiar feeling of light headedness came across me. Not bothering to disrobe I made my way to my chambers and speedily laid me down, for fear that I may faint. Some strange fever did then overcome me, and I was soon surrounded by blackness. I could not feel my body, nor could I cry out, and the whole thing did drive me into quite a panic. Presently, I came to the realization that I was squeezing my eyes shut, and did open them.

I discovered that I was no longer laying down, but standing on my own two legs, though most surprised was I by the fact that I was no longer in my chambers. Before me was a great portal, the likes of which I have never seen, so very tall that it seemed to reach the clouds in the sky, so broad that an entire marching army could stand lengthwise between its great columns. I could not decipher that which was beyond the portal, as it seemed to be cloaked by a thick mist.

A man clad in monkish dress came out from the portal, and approached me. His beard was long, and his eyes piercing, though he did seem to have a peaceful sort of smile on his lips. When he drew near, I dared to speak, though I was very frightened. I did ask him where it was exactly that I had found myself. He did not speak, but simply looked me in eyes, and I knew that I stood at the Gate to The Kingdom of Heaven.

Upon realizing where it was that I found myself, emotion overwhelmed me. Unbearable waves of awe, and joy, and sorrow overtook me. I was truly unable to bear it all, and so I dropped to my knees, and began to weep, and pray. I buried my face in my hands, and did cry out the Lords name, and continued on in this fashion for a long while. The man then did lay his hand upon my head, and said,
“Thou art in the house of thy father, thou hath no cause to lament. Rise up now, and rejoice, for you have been chosen to do the works of thy creator.”
And suddenly all that overwhelming feeling left me, and I did rise up, and feel happy, and fully content.

The man did then lead me through the great portal, and across a long distance did we travel. He told me of many things, which I shall not record here, except for that I learned that he was our own Father Swierad, and that it was he who had called me according to the Lord’s will. A long while did we travel, though we did not tire of our journey. Finally we came to some place engulfed in a brilliant light. So bright was this light, that I was nearly blinded by it. Like the light of the sun it was, though I felt no need to squint, and my eyes did not tear.

Again, we walked for a long while into that light. At one point we encountered another man clad all in monkish dress, and Swierad did greet him joyfully, embracing him and laughing all the while. He then told me that this was his one time apprentice, Benedykt, and that together they had brought me forth according to the Lord’s will. Seeing those two fine men together before me in this place did fill my heart with great joy, and I laughed with them, and embraced them, and did again cry uncontrollable tears.
We then went forth together, the three of us, and I felt with them as if we were the oldest of friends.
“Truly,” Benedykt did say to me, “all men are brothers by the light of the Lord.”
This statement did puzzle me some, and I began to meditate upon, but then it did seem that we had reached our destination. A new figure emerged from the light, at once beautiful and terrible. Twice the height of a normal man was he, with a head of golden locks and great, powerful wings. He wore upon him a suite of great armor, and upon his hip hung a great silver sword. Swierad and Benedykt did kneel before this figure, and I followed suite, for it was made known to me that this was the Archangel Michael.

Michael did not speak, but raised me up, and lead me to the epicenter of the brilliant light, and bade me kneel before it. As I looked into the light, I could decipher the outline of two sitting men, and I did see that this great light radiated from the one on my right. And it was made known to me that those before me were the Father and the Son, and the light which radiated from them was the Holy Spirit. And I did then rejoice most of all, and cried out the Lord’s name, and was humbled indescribably.

What happened hence I cannot describe in words. The Son did stand, and layed his hands upon my head, and I did see many miraculous things. It was made known to me that I and my seed had been chosen to do the Lord’s works on Earth, and that I must obey the Lord in all things thenceforth, as must my seed after me. And I was told to keep a record of the things I do, and of the things I am told, as must my seed after me. And I was told that I was to form a Holy Order, in the name of Swierad and Benedykt, upon being given leave. And that the men and women of this Order would be blessed by the Lord, and would give my line divine council in the particulars of our works, and bleed, and suffer, and die in our name. And the Lord filled me with the Holy Spirit, and I felt as a part of Him. What happened after these events I cannot recall, though I know in my heart that I was given many lessons and much guidance which lays hidden in my soul.

I awoke in my chambers, and realized that the night had not yet passed, though it did seem that I was away for many days. Forthwith, I discovered that I held a great volume, all bound in fine leather, the same as that in which I now record these words.

It is all very overwhelming, and I am not a little afraid. I feel that there is much to be done. I must prepare my realm to serve God’s will. May He be with me in all things.


February --, 1067

I am married! Love has carried me away, and made me its captive, and I know now that the Lord does truly watch over me. It was but a few short days after my Divine experience that an old friend of my father’s, Ivan of Kiev, did arrive at my court quite unannounced. I had not heard from the man in years, and was quite overjoyed to see him again, as I had thought that he was lost to us forever. We did spend much time talking, and drinking, and making merry, and the time did pass pleasantly.

Ivan told me of his travels, and of the things he had engaged himself in over the many years of his absence from Danzig. I learned that his new master was a mere boy, nine years of age, and was none other than Count Rurik Rurikovich, Lord of Peremyshl and our neighbor to the east. He spoke fondly of the boy, and with deep concern. It seemed that the young Count was a fine lad, with many outstanding qualities, but that he was all but abandoned by those who’s responsibility it was to tend to his proper upbringing. The orphaned nephew of the Prince of Kiev himself, he was neglected by his great uncle, who was too busy chasing around with Pagans in the far east to tend to his charge.
“If it were not enough,” Ivan said to me,“The boy was completely without guidance or council when I found him. Not regent nor chancellor was present to guide the poor lad in matters of state, only venomous snakes who did plot against him and hoped to gain his title by subversive means. The young Rurikovich was quite distraught, as you might imagine, and having read of my many letters of recommendation was happy to take me on as his council.”
And it does seem that good Ivan did make light of the situation, and banished the treacherous element from Rurik’s court, and took upon himself the administration of the realm and the proper education of the youthful Count.

Ivan did implore me to visit the boy, and to befriend him, and offer him my own guidance.
“Though learned and dutiful in my own regard, I am but a commoner.” Said he. “What the boy does need is true guidance from one who befits his stature, a role model, as it were. Do come with me to Peremyshl, Martin, I know it is in your heart to help this poor lamb. And even if the thought of the fragile creature does not wrench at your heart, do consider this; that one day he will be a grown man, and a noble Lord, and as such would make a good friend to you and yours.”
But indeed I did not need all this convincing, as my heart did quickly grow fond of the whole idea, and so I did straightaway agree to visit young Rurik. Preparations were made even that night, and in the morning we were on our way, to Peremyshl, a realm which had been lost to the Prince Yaroslav by my own grandfather.

I arrived with company at the court of the Count Rurikovich early in the morning on New Year’s Day, all packed into sleighs, bells jingling and jangling, a merry bunch the lot of us. I did find the boy to be quite charming, a good and bright lad, and I promised to stay four days or even a week. We spent our time happily, in a group of three, Ivan, and Rurik, and I, discoursing on many things, and making lofty plans for future engagements. Indeed, though I did not voice it aloud, if the Prince of Kiev does not learn an appreciation for his young charge, I will be more than happy sometime in the future to bring him under my own sovereignty and protection. And if it were not to the Prince’s liking, I would be pleased to knock down his golden Kievan gates, as my forefathers had done before me.

I spent my time in Peremyshl happily, though what followed my arrival was quite unexpected. It does make my heart quicken just to think of it, and I do hope that my children will read of this passage, so that they may know that they were conceived of love, and not of mere dynastic interest. At Rurik’s court there did reside a fair lady by the name of Eupraxia, a second or third cousin of his by all accounts. I did meet her for the first time on the third day of my visit, and though I found her to be quite an attractive young lady, did not think much of it. It was on the next day that I by chance met her riding in the woods not far from Rurik’s castlet, and we did return together, and exchanged many words. She told me that she had spent her youth studying under the guidance of a monk who lived nearby, and sensing that she was versed in things divine, I did engage her in conversation in this matter. We spoke on it for an hour, and then for two, and before I knew it the sun set, and rose again, and we continued our dialogue. I fell in love that night, and shall never love any other. Never have I met a women so beautiful, and yet so intelligent, so eloquent, so passionate in her faith and dedication to the Lord. How can one not love a creature so noble? As an angel she seems to me, a gift from the Lord, a living breathing blessing upon any who may encounter her. From that moment forth I did not want to ever be separate from her, and it did seem that she felt the same toward me.

We spent many happy days together, conversing on various things with Ivan and Rurik, riding together, indeed, even praying together. After a week’s time I could bear it no longer, and did profess my love to her, and she repaid me in kind. With young Rurik’s eager blessing, and Ivan’s well wishes, I speedily returned to Danzig, so that I could marry my beautiful young fiancé.

We were married on the 18th, a mere two weeks after that first fateful meeting in the woods of Peremyshl, and all was merry in Danzig, and there was much celebration and indulgence. God has blessed me with a beautiful and true wife, a love unlike any other, and a companion to share the burden of His works. Never did I imagine such happiness, and my soul does dance, for I have witnessed the immeasurable love and generosity of my Creator.

http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=7399936

Meh, not sure of the actual word count, think it is somewhere around 4000. I know it wasn't originally a short story, however, it became one. :D

I am definately in this. I will find some of my older works, or work on something new. However, I will share with you a real life story from a NationStates member no longer with us.

Let me find it first.

"I sit here thinking to myself again. It is after midnight again…like it always is when I think. There is an open bottle of vodka...half full since I started thinking. I always drink when I think. It helps kill the pain that builds up inside of me…a great deal of pain. My entire life is full of pain and sorrow.

I’ll start at the beginning of my hell…where everything really came crashing down into an oblivion.


It was a cold winter night…the snow covered the ground about a foot or so. I was lying on DFD’s kitchen floor. The events that just passed unclear to even me. I heard the sound of the shower below cease as the water was turned off. A warm sticky substance lay about me all over…slowly becoming cold and sticking to my clothes. I felt cold and tired…my life draining from me. The sounds of footsteps coming up the stairs sounded so distant. I struggled to try to sit, but my body wouldn’t move at all. I tried to focus on the figure closing in on me…a muffled distant sound coming from it. The figure dropped to its knees before me…I could barely see the tears pouring from its face but it was then I recognized those dark brown eyes to be DFD’s. She was crying for me. I felt a dizzy sickening sensation as she struggled to pull my body onto her lap. She held me close...although I could no longer feel the warmth radiating from her. Her eyes pleaded with me…begging me for answers…crying out to me in shock…in horror. And that was the last thing I knew I would ever see again…that and the sight of my best friend entering…looking like he wanted to kill me…


Almost two days later I awoke to the sounds of a steady beeping. My eyes were blurry and unfocused and I couldn’t feel my right arm at all. My head pounded as I struggled to see where I was. I couldn’t make out anything but a few murmured conversations somewhere nearby and the loud steady beeping seeming right next to me. I closed my eyes again…darkness enveloped me…a darkness I would become quite acquainted to for a very long time.

A few hours later I woke again to a familiar face. The sight of my best friend Inferno sitting half asleep aside of me was warming. I struggled to sit up feeling dizzy and weak. My poor attempts of moving stirred Inferno and he shook his head disgusted at me. I felt ashamed…as I took in my surroundings…white walls…the murmured nearby conversations…the steady beep. I was in a hospital…my best friend...the only one there for me. He grinned quickly as if knowing the wave of depressed emotions that suddenly filled me. “Glad to have you back bro!” His words would stay with me for a long time.

I don’t know how long I was conscious before I passed out again. It wasn’t long because I stilled didn’t learn what happened. The black oblivion engulfed me. When I awoke again…I was lying in wet sheets…on a wet pillow…in a wet hospital gown. I suddenly knew why I was there…the throbbing in my right arm bringing me back to reality. I was sweating heavily…the sweat pouring off of me…the sound of the beeping increasing in pace. I struggled to catch my breathing…but I failed…the darkness shrouding me once again.

I woke early…how early I couldn’t tell you. The bright light from somewhere in the room blinded me as my eyes tried to adjust. I felt my left arm being tightly constricted by some powerful force…and using what little energy I gained from the nights sleep I strained to make out the object impeding my blood flow. The figure I came to know as one of my nurses was prepping for another IV. I let her work unheeded as I succumbed to my beloved darkness…

It was a couple hours later that I woke again. I struggled to sit up…and this time I succeeded. I could feel my strength regaining. I looked around…hope of seeing Inferno filling me. To my disappointment my room was empty…I shouldn’t have expected anything more though. I sat in silence…my past consuming me.

Through the dark veil I used to hide my past behind…the jar I bottled everything up in now broken…my entire horrible past replayed itself…up to the very moment that ended me up here. I heard screaming this time. Vivid screaming I swear was right next to me. “Dante! DANTE!” it called. I felt a sudden jolt as my body seemed to be pulled upward and thrust onto the bed…it felt as if some stronger force pulled me from the midst of falling. Again…sweat was pouring from me…the beeping I came to realize monitored my heart rate was in full blast…my breathing heavy and fast…and a nurse stood over me with a look of sympathetic fear. I had no idea what just happened but I learned that the screaming I heard was not part of that dream I seemed to be having, but rather a voice I should have instantly recognized to be that of DFD’s.

We sat in an odd silence…avoiding eye contact and conversation for a long time. It wasn’t me who broke the silence but rather Inferno. He started the conversation going between us. It was about a half hour into our conversation when my arm began to throb. And it became clear as day to me that I really hurt DFD…hurt her more then I could have ever hurt myself. And even now…at this moment in time…as I suffer from the overwhelming pain of being hit by a moving vehicle…I realize that none of this pain could amount to the pain and anguish DFD endured from this whole event."


(This is an actual story of a real life event by the author. Keep in mind this author is no longer with us before any of you comment. Just think before you speak, that is all I am asking.)

(This is an actual story of a real life event by the author. Keep in mind this author is no longer with us before any of you comment. Just think before you speak, that is all I am asking.)[OOC: I'm so sorry. :(]

"The dwarves are marching." The word was out on the street, "The dwarves are marching." The streets and alleyways were wet with salty tears as the world saw its children go to war. The streams of sadness ran down the veinules that ramified throughout the buildings that grew up out of the sidewalk. Down they ran, growing, merging, evolving into a great corpus of lifeblood that ebbed and flowed through the great underground vessels of the city, past the goblin dwellings.

"The dwarves are marching," burbled the brine as it undulated past the city's ribs. "The dwarves are marching," murmured the goblins. They all gathered together and conjoined. Their fluids mixed and mingled through their conduits. The great heartbeat of the city, the very same that forced the tears through the city, moved that brine through the gaps in their souls as the goblin king awoke. He wiggled his fingers, and the street-lamps swayed, he yawned, and the air-vents inhaled; he suffered from morning wood, and the Empire State Building stood a little straighter. The goblin king was awake to defend his demesne; he had only one thought in his mind, "The dwarves are marching."

The inhabitants of the city did not know what was happening. All they knew was that the sky wept. As one they avoided the subways, the great underground wyrms that would one day break free and not spew forth those that they had ingested. They took to the streams that had become of the streets, trudging through the salt water. The buildings squatted, sullen, their spines hunched over and tired, orifices open to receive the flood of human excrement, swallowing it up spurt after spurt and the people wiggled down the throats and other channels of the buildings. In time, the buildings would become pregnant, swing wide their double doors, and out would be born more people. But not this time, for the dwarves were coming.

The city shook. Deep within its bowels a force was arising. Coal fueled cysts in old buildings burst open, and the dwarves they had long confined flowed forth. Up from the depths of the city's flesh where they toiled and struggled to fetch the fuliginous food that fed the foul beast, but now, no more, for they had broken free and were marching upon their captor. They were filthy beasts by any description, covered in soot and grime they waded through the tears that flowed by. Though clean and refreshing before, now this sadness was sullied and oozed forth, choking the serpentine gutters. The city shook with their footsteps, a mighty dysrhythmia in its heartbeat. Though the battle was not yet fought, there was no question of the outcome: the city would die.

Dark tracks were left along the passageways deep beneath the city's surface. Long lines left by the dragging knuckles, caked with the grime of a century's labor. Each speck of dirt left behind told a story. Deep within it there lived a million invisible creatures, battling, living, fornicating within in a grim mockery of the world above. And deep within this grime there was a city where its slaves of long past arose, and with every step they took the greater city shook with the steps of its slaves, now free. A toothy grin was wide upon the faces of the dwarves, a gaping black hole that aped their steel prisons, straggle teeth mocking the bars they rent asunder to break free. These things, these grim mockeries of men arose from the depths of the city, breaking forth from their tumors, a malignant cancer who's sole purpose was to slay its host.

The steps woke the rats and they opened their eyes, red LEDs glowing dim in the light that did not shine amongst the city's nerves. The stranded wire quested forth, intertwining itself with all there was. A great embrace of copper, up through the corrugated tails to the electric minds of the rodents. A plague of eyes and ears. Dripping from their teeth was venom of pure knowledge. For all the city knew was held by them. Each one a thought, a wish, a dream of the city who's heart beat far above. And they fell upon the dwarves.

The first battle was vicious. From every wound of the city hemorrhaged forth these rats only to devour those in their way. Each bite that passed their lips was a bit that the city digested, a piece of information which echoed through abandoned telegraph lines. Their coaxial tails twisted upward, invading slaves through the ports of their flesh, climbing within through the holes in their mind, raping them body and soul to meet in the middle. Each dwarf that fell was held tight by the tails that thrust through its body, glistening with the poisoned knowledge that impregnated the corpse with the seeds of more rats, an ever growing army to destroy the danger; but they failed, for the dwarves marched on.

Forward up to the streets of the city they flowed. Up through the grates and the subways, up from the basements they climbed up to the skin dragging behind the dead bodies of the rats, coaxial still twisting to invade their skin. The skin bled. With every step of the cursed dwarves the skin of the city split upon to reveal blood. Black and tary, beneath every cobblestone flowed this elixir of life that kept the city alive. The callous feet tore upon the sidewalks and streets. The blood flowed out, the brine flowed in, and the city howled in pain. Birds fled to their homes among the stars, unable to bear the soul-rending song of their home of old.

The empty eyes of the city gazed down from a million buildings. In the middle of each gazed the city' unknowing inhabitants, their world shattered and horrors of the world dragging horrors of the mind claimed the streets as their own, leaving bones of steel, and flesh of iron torn from each other, and diseased. Gangrene spread through the lifeblood, up through the buildings, and with a sign, each dissolved its roots as the caries spread and toppled to the gums below. A nightmare skyline of scraggle teeth, asking one question of the sky, "WHY?" But the sky only wept.


Any criticism is welcome.

Feedback is wanted. I know there is a big continuity error, but still.



*The Forward*


“You have one new message.”

Exhaling loudly into his hands, Alex Wong turned back towards the bright computer screen where he had been summoned, the 21-inch monitor momentarily blinding him. He leaned over to the right of the computer and turned on the lone portable lamp in the room; without its shade, it shone in unison with the monitor, illuminating the room like a burning candle waiting to be snuffed out.

Alex ran his hands through his black hair and looked around the sparsely decorated room. Other than the computer table and the accompanying lamp in the middle of the room, there was only a three level, oak finished book shelf in the far corner of the eggshell coloured room. On it were rows upon rows of neatly organized Science-Fiction books, Alex’s favourite literature.

Through the room’s solitary window, Alex could see that darkness had indeed covered Surrey like a blanket. It was getting late, but Alex had to stay up: as a rookie journalist at the Surrey Examiner, he knew he had to prove to Cory Anderson, the editor that he belonged. That often meant waiting around the computer for any e-mails about new assignments. If he missed an important press conference, or was late for an interview, he knew he would be done at the Examiner.

Shifting slightly in his rigid metal chair, which he borrowed from the kitchen table, Alex logged into his e-mail account. The message was not from his editor. Rather, it was from a Kari Jones at kari132@endmail.com.

Alex grimaced and pursed his lips. It was just a forward, a dull e-mail that tried to get you to think about one thing or another, and then promised that if you sent the letter to all your friends, something good will happen. However, if you neglect to pass on the message, something dreadful would happen.

Perhaps he was tempting fate, but Alex never forwarded any e-mails. He simply could not be bothered with anything that was so… pointless.

Still, Alex read the odd one that passed through his inbox, more for a laugh than anything. This particular one from Kari was about memories and remembrance.

Alex quickly read through the piece, speaking the words softly as they rolled by on a background of black: “Memories fade… lingering thoughts that once were now no more… loved ones lost… remember what you had… you too will fade.”

At the bottom of the e-mail was the usual veiled threat: “Forward this to all your friends within 24 hours and you will be in their thoughts forever. Fail to do so and you will be nothing but a faded memory to them.”

There was something different at the end of the message, however. In large white script that stood out from the black surroundings was a logo for Endmail Inc., along with an address for its head office. The company was headquartered right in Surrey, deep in the heart of the warehouse district in Bridgeview.

Alex chuckled to himself, a smile coming to his lips. He did not know what was funnier: the fact that there was a company that made its living on writing e-mail, or that they thought him gullible enough to believe in what they mailed him. A smile still etched on his face, Alex turned off the computer, watching the monitor’s bright hues disappear behind the wall of black.

With the screen now faded to nothingness, Alex could see his reflection in the screen. He hunched over and stared at himself for a moment, studying his face in the blank panel. Alex could see that his green eyes had ugly black bulges underneath them, and that his nose was slightly running. He decided that he had looked better, and smiled a grin he could not feel.

Suddenly, a voice gently cried out from the other room. “Alex… its almost midnight. Shouldn’t you be coming to bed?”

Alex sat upright at the voice of his girlfriend of two years, Kiera Williamson. Kiera Williamson: a blue eyed, blonde haired woman who came up just a bit short of Alex’s shoulder. Alex had met her at his favourite bar, the Loggerhead pub, when she started to work there as a waitress. Within a couple nights, he had obtained her number, and they had been together ever since. She had only recently moved into his small rancher, and already he could not know how he could have made it without her. She believed in him when he was unable to find a job and during times when he was too busy to attend to her needs, she picked up the slack.

Getting up from the stiff metal chair, Alex turned off the lamp, leaving him momentarily in a sea of darkness. He paused for a moment, and shook his head once more at the email he had received. Carefully, Alex groped his way out of the room and went to go join his love in bed.

_________________________

The sun was not quite up as Alex drove his ’97 Honda Civic to work the next morning, but he did not mind - he was feeling full and content. Kiera, like every morning since she had moved in with him, had breakfast waiting for him when he had awakened. Every meal prepared before she left for work was different: today he had French toast, and scrambled eggs, all topped off with a glass of orange juice. While parking the car in the narrow stalls of the Examiner, Alex could still taste the juicy butter of the toast running over onto his slightly burned eggs.

It was just after 6:30 a.m. when Alex walked into the Surrey Examiner building carrying his bulging briefcase. The only people there before him were his editor, and Thomas Grady, the newspaper’s security officer.

With a wave towards the guard, who was napping behind the latest issue of the Examiner on his usual seat in the corner of the lobby, Alex went and sat down at his tiny cubicle – Alex could sit in his chair and reach every wall of his cubicle. Alex checked to see if Cory had left any new messages in his e-mail. There were none: the memory e-mail from last night was the last message he had received.

Alex had just opened up his briefcase when Cory walked up to him, the editor’s imported Italian leather shoes announcing his appearance long before he came into view.

“Morning, Mr. Wong,” said Cory, “Good to see you here so early every morning.”

“Thank you, sir,” answered Alex, “I like to get an early start on things.”

“Good to hear.” The balding, overweight editor looked about the cramped workspace before continuing: “You’ll be working with Dean today,” said Cory, with a grin that to Alex seemed mismatched on the portly editor’s face. “You two will be going out to Langley to cover a library opening. It’s cheesy, but it’s what sells newspapers. Dean is already warming up the van. Meet him in the parking lot.”

Alex grinned, and nodded at the editor. Dean Bayliss, the Examiner’s photographer, was an old friend of Alex. He had helped Alex land the job at the Examiner when he finished college. By the time Alex had closed his briefcase with a muffled thump, Cory had already slipped away, disappearing into the silent labyrinth of the still empty Examiner. Alex did not hear the editor slip away, and that made him uneasy. As he walked out into the parking lot, he noticed Thomas was snoring quite loudly from behind his newspaper.

Dean had the car idling as Alex climbed in. Throwing it into gear with a terrible crunch, Dean rolled the newspaper’s beat-up Chevy Astro forward, its faded navy - blue paint paling in the early morning sun. Dean passed Alex a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee with his free right hand, leaving his left hand lazily on the steering wheel. Alex took a quick swig, and winced. It was too hot, and burned the back of his throat going down. Still, the caffeine would keep him alert.

Still keeping his eyes on the road, Dean asked Alex, “So how’s things with Kiera, man. You guys been together…”

“For almost two years,” replied Alex, pausing to blow on the searing cup of coffee. “I know I’ve said this before, but it’s so nice to have her there to help me through things. She never forgets about anything.”

Dean calmly shifted the van over into the curb lane and fingered a guy who drove by leaning on his horn. "Are you still working late? You look kind of tired."

"Yes, but its ok. Kiera makes these great breakfasts and Im wide awake."

Dean slowly braked the van as they pulled up to a red light. Taking a sip of his own coffee, Dean looked at Alex sharply for a moment. It made Alex uncomfortable.

“Hey, you don’t want to lose Kiera okay.” Dean said, “Don't take her for granter, or feel unloved. You don’t want to let some guy come in and take her right from under you.”

Alex looked away, and took a swallow of his now cool drink. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

The light turned green, and Dean drove on without replying.

________________________

After Alex had filed his story at the Examiner, he drove straight home. Ever since Dean had warned him about not losing Kiera, he had wanted to be near her; to feel her. The whole time while at the library opening, he had to reassure himself that she was his and that she would never go away.

As he entered the front door of his olive green rancher, Alex could see that Kiera was in the kitchen preparing that night’s dinner. He walked up behind Kiera, and wrapped his arms around her waist, enveloping her in a tight bear hug. Kiera yelped, and then giggled.

Still grasping a rubber spatula in her left hand, Kiera leaned back and kissed Alex tenderly on the lips, letting her free right hand run through Alex’s hair.

“What’s gotten into you?” said Kiera, after she had released Alex from their passionate embrace? “You’re never like this before dinner.”

Alex laughed at that, his body shaking Kiera in rhythm. “I don’t know… Dean said something that made me realize how much I really love you.”

“Oh really…” Kiera looked askance at Alex, but quickly brought a smile back to her face. “What was it that your brilliant friend said this time?”

“Nothing you need to be worried about… You just need to worry about me and you.” Shifting slightly, Alex started nibbling on Kiera’s left ear, tenderly, but with acknowledged intent.

“But Alex…” murmured Kiera, “What about the beans?”

“Kiera – I’m don’t want beans right now…”

Kiera, careful not to interrupt Alex, reached up towards the stove. With a muted click, the stove shut down, the red slowly cooling to a dull crimson, than to black.

________________________

That night, before he and Kiera made love, Alex could only think of one thing: the e-mail he had received the night before. He would never admit it, but something about the message from Endmail was grating him.

As he waited for Kiera to get ready, he paced their peach-coloured room – it was about twice the size of his office at the Examiner. It was just a dumb e-mail, he told himself, slapping his cheek to drive the message home. Nothing more.

He put it out of his mind when Kiera walked in. She was wearing a sheer white teddy, with straps that lay unhooked on the edge of her thighs. Alex forgot about the e-mail shortly thereafter.

________________________

When Alex drove to the Examiner the next morning, he was not full or content – he was confused. When he had woken up from the passion-filled previous night, he had found that Kiera had already left for work. That was fine: she often had to go to the Loggerhead to work the breakfast rush. However, what was unusual was that she had left him no breakfast. Alex knew that he was being childish, but it was the first time ever that Kiera had not left anything for him: no buttery French toast, no slightly burned eggs. Nothing. It was something that simply never had happened before, and his rumbling stomach reminded him of it constantly during his commute.

Alex was still thinking bout Kiera when he walked into the Examiner building shortly after 6 a.m., and did not notice Thomas come up from behind him. Thomas pulled free his stubby, wooden baton, grabbed Alex roughly by his right shoulder and spun him around.

“Hey, pal, we’re not open ‘til nine a.m.” he said with a growl.
Alex was startled out of his reverie, and faced Thomas with a grin. “Oh, hey Tom. Its only me…” Thomas still looked half-asleep to Alex.

The security guard pushed Alex hard, sending him back into the cement wall with an audible thud. Thomas was not asleep at all. “Listen, sir, I don’t know how you know my name, but I’ve never seen you before in my life, and you definitely don’t belong here.”

Suddenly, Cory’s voice boomed out from down the hall. “What’s going on down there?” As soon as the editor arrived, Tom, still standing over Alex, apprised him of the situation.

“Sir,” said Cory to Alex, “I must ask you to leave. This is a place of business.”

“Cory… don’t you know who I am?” Alex looked at Cory disbelievingly.

“Sorry, sir, but you must have me confused with someone else.”

“Morning, everyone. What’s up?”

Dean walked up to the group. He was carrying his old, tan digital camera bag on his left shoulder, and had slung his black sport coat on his right.

“Dean, thank god,” said Alex, “Please tell these guys who I am.”

Dean looked at Alex with a smile. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

Alex stared at Dean for a moment, and then turned away from his friend. Looking at the surrounding group of people, Alex said, “I’m sorry. I think I have the wrong place…”

Alex then brushed past his three inquisitors and walked out of the Examiner. Pausing for a moment outside of the building, Alex slowly breathed in and out the crisp morning air, his breath leaving thin, vapor trails in front of his mouth. He was hurt and confused at what had just transpired. Maybe they’re pulling a joke on me, Alex thought, but why such a dumb one?

Alex decided that standing outside the Examiner wasn’t going to help him sort it all out. He elected to go find Kiera at the Loggerhead Pub, where she worked as a waitress.

_________________________


By the time he had driven down to the Loggerhead, Alex had convinced himself that his coworkers were playing a joke on him. Heading inside the dim and musty pub, Alex spotted Kiera clearing a table. The pub was empty, save a pair of bikers in black leather jackets sat at the bar sharing a plate of eggs.

Alex slowly made his way to Kiera through the row of upturned chairs that sat on the wooden tables. He snuck up from behind the unsuspecting waitress and gave her a hug from behind. “Honey,” he said, “you will not believe what just happened.”

Kiera, unlike the previous afternoon, did not turn around to give him a tender kiss. Instead, she screamed, dropping the stack of white, ceramic breakfast trays onto the floor, shattering them into pieces that flew onto Alex’s shoes.

Alex released her, and backed off, raising both hands in front of his chest. “Kiera, what’s wrong?”

Kiera picked up a butter knife and waved it towards Alex, making him step back. “Look, buddy, I’m used to your kind. Always making comments and trying to get some, but just to let you know, I’m not for sale.”

Alex gawked at Kiera. He wanted to step towards her, but was kept at bay by the silver butter knife. “Kiera, its me. Alex: your boyfriend. We had sex last night…remember?”

Kiera stepped forward, knife in hand. Alex had to step back again, bumping up against a tray of silverware on the table behind him. “I don’t know who you are,” Kiera said in a wavering voice, but if you don’t leave, I’m calling the cops.”

Alex was about to protest again when he could see that Kiera’s eyes were welling up. He could not believe what was happening, but he knew that the longer he stayed, the worse it was going to get.

He turned and ran out of the restaurant, knocking over the tray of spoons and forks behind him with a loud clatter. The two bikers at the bar did not look up from their plate of eggs.

Outside of the pub, Alex paused again. He knew that it was not a joke anymore. A couple walked past him into the Loggerhead, giving him a dirty look for being in their way. Alex did not notice them: he was thinking back to a certain e-mail he had received two days before: “Memories fade… lingering thoughts that once were now no more… loved ones lost… remember what you had… you too will fade.”

He knew what he had to do: it was time to pay a visit to Endmail Inc.

_______________________


“Thank you for calling Endmail Inc. Remember, we're moving forward one step at a time."

With a muted click, Alex could hear a phone receiver being put down.

“And how can I help you?”

Alex turned from the couch he waited on towards the feminine voice that sat behind the counter. It was a woman in her late thirties, and she wore black earrings that clashed with her blinding white blouse. Alex looked around the lobby of Endmail Inc. It was very post-modern, with lattices and beams appearing and disappearing without any seeming order. As if to accentuate it’s post-modern design, their was a copy of Warhol’s painting of a Campbell’s soup can on the far wall.

“Sir?”

Alex turned once again to the woman. He got up off the couch slowly, and made his way to her. He leaned one arm on the granite counter, and looked down at her. She was pretty, and her cheeks were rosy, like she had just come in from a cold, windy day.

Before he could double-guess himself, Alex said, “I would like to know if a Kari Jones is working today?”

“I am she.” the woman replied, swaying her earrings as she nodded her head. “How may I help you?”

Alex stood there for a moment. He could not believe that this kindly woman had anything to do with his problem. Still, there she was in black and white.
“I am Alex Wong. You sent me an e-mail two days ago… it was something about memory…”

Kari paused for a moment, eyes closed as if she was collecting some obscure sliver of information from her mind. “Ahh, yes, from our latest collection. How did that one go? Memories fade… lingering thoughts that once were now no more…”

“Loved ones lost… remember what you had… you too will fade.” Alex finished the poem, which he still remembered. “Look, I don’t know how it works, but it happened.”

“What happened, sir?”

Alex pounded the counter with his right hand. With spittle spewing from his mouth, he said, “The e-mail said that if I didn’t forward it, that everyone I knew would forget I existed. It happened.”

The woman calmly looked back at Alex, which only made him more furious. “Of course it did, sir. What did you expect?”

Alex wanted to shake Kari by the shoulders, but could not reach over the counter. “Its just a dumb e-mail. Those little promises at the end are just… nothing. They’re not supposed to do anything!”

“Oh, but they do.” Kari turned towards her computer terminal and punched up a screen. “Do you remember when you were turned down for that job at Vancouver Times?”

Alex thought for a moment, running his hand through his hair. “Yes… that was a couple of years ago… but they said that there were no positions available.”
Kari laughed, a high-pitched squeal that made her no longer beautiful to Alex. “No, sir. The reason why you were turned down was because you did not send along the forward we sent to you on…”Kari paused again and typed something into her computer. “August 15, 2007. The one about careers and dreams.”

Alex was about to protest, but Kari cut him off with a wave of her hand. Her face turned a darker shade of red, and her voice took on a harsher timbre.

“Sir, we here at Endmail Inc. are responsible for every single forwarded message out on the Internet. We have been licensed to write and send them out, and take our work very seriously. Our work is very simple, and like most businesses, our clients define who we are. It’s simple: help us, and we help you. Hinder us, and we can make your life a living hell. Would you like to know why some people never seem to be able to find love? They, like you, declined to forward their messages, theirs being on the love. Remember, we warn you.”

Alex looked dumbfounded at Kari. He was no longer angry, and he unclenched his fists?

“Look, “Alex said hesitatingly, no longer angry, “Is there any way that I can… change things?”

Kari looked up, her face no longer so flushed and her voice back to its light tone. “Why yes, there is.”

Alex squinted at her, his eyes near-closed.

“All you have to do, sir, is leave me the e-mail addresses of everyone who has forgotten you, and I will personally send them an e-mail about recollection. By the time you next see them, everything will be exactly as it was before this all happened.”

Alex felt that he had nothing left to lose, and took the proffered pen from Kari. Still uneasy, Alex wrote down the e-mail addresses of Cory, Thomas, and Dean on the black piece stationary with the Endmail letterhead on the top. He was especially careful when writing down Kiera’s address.
Kari took back the paper, scanned it over, and smiled. “All right, sir. I will do that right now, don’t you worry. By the time you get home, your friends will all remember you.”

Alex pushed himself back from the counter with a relieved sigh. He thanked Kari and walked towards the double glass doors that led to the parking lot.
Halfway out the door, Kari called out to Alex. He couldn’t quite hear her over the sound of a car driving by, and turned around.

Kari shouted again: “Remember sir, you the customer help us move forward.”
Alex walked out without a backward glance.

__________________________

Alex stood on the doorstep of his olive green rancher, his hand pausing just above the doorbell.

Did it work? Alex thought to himself, will she remember me?

Alex was just about to press the doorbell when he heard a booming shout from behind him.

“Police: freeze!”

Alex turned around just in time to see two blurred blue and white figures tackle him to the ground. The blurred figures were members of the Surrey RCMP.

“Sir, you’re under arrest for stalking Kiera Williamson. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney…”

Alex was stunned, and then started yelling. “Wait, this is a misunderstanding. You got the wrong guy.”

As Alex was pulled up and led away, Kiera walked out of the house and stood on the front porch.

“Kiera!” Alex cried out, “Tell them that this is all a misunderstanding.”

Kiera stood for a moment, and then yelled out. “Yes officers. That’s the man that sexually harassed me at work. Please take him away.”

Alex, still being led away by the police, looked back over his shoulder at Kiera. “You’re supposed to remember me,” he screamed. “She promised that you would remember me.”

Alex was still screaming as he was loaded into the police cruiser and driven away.

_________________________

Kiera stood on the front porch of her olive green rancher and watched the police cruiser taking away Alex until it disappeared around the corner of the cul-de-sac.

Behind her, she heard the screen door slam with a bang. A pair of arms wrapped themselves around her waist.

She turned around and smiled, placing her hand on top of the hands on her waist. She turned around and looked up at Dean.

“Poor Alex. I warned him that some guy was going to come and steal you from him…”

Kiera and Dean kissed. From somewhere in the background, a voice signaled that there was a new message waiting to be read.

A little Lovecraftian patische I pounded out back on Feb. 24th, 2001. I know you said original and not cribbed, but Mythos is common domain. If not allowable, I'll come up with something else, no big loss, as I think this is crap, heh. Edited for format, not for content. 1,885 words.

---

The Letter

I was taking a brief vacation from the Foundation, just spending time at my estate, lounging about, not really planning to do much. I was resting on the deck in the back, half a glass of now warm beer sitting on the low table next to my chair, along with an ashtray that held four or five butts. It had been a nice vacation. I hadn't actually gone anywhere, but had gotten back in touch with myself. Work at the Foundation can be bad for one's soul.

As I was relaxing, trying to figure out if I wanted to go out for dinner, or just scrounge something up from the refrigerator, I heard the phone ring. I meandered inside, and picked it up on the third ring.

"Hello, Robert speaking."

"Robert? Ah, I am glad that you are home," it was the voice of Marcus, my supervisor at the Foundation.

"Marcus, I'm on vacation."

"I am aware. I would not have called if this were a trivial matter," his voice was cool and serious. I fished in my pocket for a cigarette. I had a feeling that my general stress level was about to elevate, and a preemptive strike might be wise.

"What'cha got for me, Marcus?"

"You have received a letter."

"...and?"

"It is from that compound in Kansas."

"Shit," I muttered under my breath, "I'll be right there." My vacation was shot now. I quickly showered and dressed for work. I wore a gray double breasted suit with a matte silver tie. I squared my hat on my head, grabbed my walking stick, and went out to my car for the drive up to the Foundation headquarters in downtown Chicago.

The compound that he mentioned was really more of a rat's nest of cultists. They worshipped an odd alien/deity with a long unpronounceable name. We had been monitoring their activities for some time now, and were trying to decide if we needed to send in a team to try to flush them out.

I parked in the underground garage, exchanged pleasantries with the security guards, and went to my office. The letter was waiting for me, on my desk. I placed my long coat and hat on the coatrack in the corner and laid my walking stick on the couch. I went to my bureau and poured some bourbon into a small tumbler before seating myself behind my desk. I swirled the alcohol in the glass as I regarded the letter. It seemed normal enough; the only thing of note was the writing. It was very difficult to read, and ranged from being bunched together and sprawling. Glancing at the postmark, I saw that the Post Office had taken their time with the letter. Not surprising, it was pretty messy. I opened a drawer, and pulled out a silver letter opener, and opened the envelope. It contained several sheets of paper with the same rushed script. Leaning back in my chair, I propped my feet up on the desk, and started to read it.


Mr. Synth,

You don't know me. My name is Jakob Harrison, and I have made a terrible mistake. I wanted to send this to you. It is said that you have a lot of pull in the Foundation, and I was hoping that you might cause your group to raze this compound. I realize this sounds odd, but let me explain.

I am the son of a preacher, and grew up hearing of God, and how he loves me. Not even my father's God can help me, I fear. As a teen, I rebelled against his teaching, like most teens these days do. Unlike most teens my age, I fell into the grips of the cult I now work for. This is a deadly organization, and you must stop it! They told me that I was taught to worship a false god, one that didn't exist. The showed me things, terrible things. They said that should I help their work, I would actually see their god rise up and devour the unrighteous. Theirs was a living god, and he could be brought forth. I could speak with him, and learn at his feet.

He had countless names, but he real name, his true name was Nyarlathotep. He was said to be a god of wisdom. Alas, he is the god of wisdom all right. The wisdom that madmen are privy to; the insight of the damned.

I was young and foolish, and was easily manipulated. I became a fanatic. Nyarlathotep was a thirsty god, however, and I contributed to many a sacrifice in his name, including the offering up of my own family on his black altar.

That sacrifice almost gave me pause, but the elders told me that they refused to believe, and were therefore infidels. I still remember that night: the moon was gibbous, and hung like some mocking face in the sky, casting its deathly pallor over the sacred grove we huddled in. The black altar, made of a strangely slick stone, squatted in the center of the grove, thirsting for the blood of my family, who were tied down on the maw-like top. My elder gave me the sacrificial dagger, and bade me to do my lord's work.

The robes we wore for this solemn event had cowls which hid the faces of the practitioners, but mine was cast back, so they could see who was to commit the act. My mother and sister whimpered and mewled, begging me not to do it. My father whispered prayers to God, praying for deliverance that was not to be. Then he prayed for my soul, which enraged me. Couldn't he see that this was for the betterment of my soul? I was about to offer up my family so that they might feed my lord, and elevate my position in his eyes! Why couldn't he understand this? Was he so selfish to think that only his way was proper?

I called out the litany as I moved to my mother. "Ia, Nyarlathotep. C'tgn fthgn. Gthl'hr!" As I chanted, the others joined in, our voices rising up to the heavens to reach His ears. We were doing His work! The blade bit deep, spilling mother's blood, which seemed to be absorbed by the altar. It started to turn a deep red, and then started to pulse. I moved quickly to my sister, still chanting, and offered her up as well. A strange howling laughter pierced the night sky as I offered up my father, silencing his worthless prayers forever.

Soon, their bodies were drained of blood, and the moon cast a sickly red glow on us. We cried and howled in delight. Nyarlathotep must indeed be pleased with us. We tore at our robes, and cut our bodies; the ritual dissolving into a sanguine orgy. In the morning we returned to the compound elated, and far more holy than those who hadn't come with.

Over the years, I took part in as many of the rituals as I could, and my status grew. Those who challenged me were made into offerings. I wielded the dagger at every ceremony that didn't involve someone else's family. I served a blood-thirsty god, and became blood-thirsty myself. My desires grew more and more unhealthy and vile. I am covered in scars from those rituals, and others too horrible to remember, let alone commit to paper.

As I grew more favored, I spent more time in the library, reading about our cult and others like it. I read all that was there, and worked to improve the collection, which now read like the Pope's list of blasphemous and evil books. My mind was full of rituals, spells, and the names of countless abhorrent deities.

This proved to be my downfall.

I had just acquired a series of books written by a sixteenth century wizard who also worshipped Nyarlathotep. The books seemed to be more of a journal than a series of grimoirs. As I read the books, I noticed that his writing grew progressively worse, and that -- at times -- he seemed to lose lucidity.

In the last volume he eagerly described the preparations he was making for summoning Nyarlathotep to this plane, that the two might talk. The last entry was before the ceremony. After that, in a barely legible scrawl were the words "All for naught."

I, of course, figured that the ritual didn't work. But something bit at the back of my mind. Things didn't add up right. It was hard to spend a great deal of time pondering this, as I was suffering from lapses in lucidity as well, but over several months I pondered it when I had a chance. I went over his notes about the preparation, and they seemed to be in order. Not that the ritual required difficult ingredients. The only item that was difficult to obtain would be the Black Candles (a process much too gruesome to discuss), but claimed to have obtained real ones. What was the problem? What was for "naught"? Unless he performed the ritual wrong, it should have worked. I prayed for guidance, hoping to learn what had lead my ancestral brother astray.

The answer came in a dream.

I was in a desert, the sky a strange orange. I was surrounded by sand as far as the eye could see. Off in the distance I could see someone, or something walking towards me, so I set off in that direction. Time melted away, and soon I could see him. He was a tall, proud man of Egyptian stock. Powerful eyes held my gaze, seemed to hypnotize me. His arms hung limply at his sides, and strange animals licked his hands. We seemed to stand forever until he finally spoke. "The ritual worked," he said in a soft voice like honey. Then I awoke, screaming out in madness. I was joined by several others who thought I was in rapture. I know what that aged wizard meant when he said "All for naught," in his madness, as I now suffered the same malady. I am writing this letter to you some hours after my dream.

Why is "all for naught"? Because, we don't matter! I am no more favorable in Nyarlathotep's eyes than my father was. The Outer Ones won't slay the unworthy and save us, those who fought to free them! We will all be devoured! All for naught! My life, my work! They will break free with or without us! I shall draw blood for the last time tonight, and be free of my mind!

I set down the letter. My glass was empty, and I lit another cigarette. There was more to the letter, but it was completely impossible to read, probably more ramblings, or crazed instructions to destroy the compound. I believed him, of course. It was my job. The phone rang. It was Marcus. I told him what the letter contained, and he told me to assemble my team and go to Kansas to rout the compound, as I knew he would. I agreed, as he knew I would.

This job is bad for my soul. How many times can do this before I go off gibbering into the night?

fin

A story I wrote about two years ago I figure. It's about a Drow, but further then that has no really connections to anything particular. It's 1838 words long... Hope that's enough.

Oh yeah, it's called 'I love Winter.'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I love winter.
The cold winds that sweeps against my bared arms, the chill that seeps into my pores as I splatter the water against my face and removing the last traces of sleep from my mind as the cold settles in my mind, sharpening me and keeping me alert.

I hear a splash followed by a somewhat agonized groan to my left and I look up towards the sound and barely manage to suppress a smirk.
Standing in the water, shaking like a reed is a tall broad and until a moment ago proud human male. His savage facial features clearly giving away what he thinks of early morning bath’s in the winter, or bath’s in general, yet he does it anyway every morning when possible he washes himself because I asked him to and he does it… because he knows his scent is unpleasant to me and because I asked, no threatening, no screaming, he did it because I asked and because he cares about me.

He focuses his strange green eyes at me, his long wet brown hair hanging slightly in front of his face and nearly covering his right eye. He looks down at himself and then raises his head again, his hair now completely covers his face his green eyes looking pleadingly at me, and somehow he reminds me of the wolves that live here, strong, proud and independent, yet once you learn them better they can be as meek as sheep… ofcourse only if you get to know them better.

I turn around and look for the bar of scentless soap we bought three days ago in that village, the same village where we accepted the offer of a merchant to hunt down the four thieves that stole his money.
Looking at the yellowish bar of soap, I can’t help but wonder why the humans don’t add a bit of coloration to it, it’s little wonder so few are willing to use soap if it looks as hideous as this does. Hearing the little whimpering from my “proud” male, I turn around with a grin on my face, I know he only acts like he does because he believes it will make me feel better, make me feel as if I lost less than I did, he doesn’t seem to realize that I rather have this one proud, savage, independent and loyal human male, then a dozen submissive, but backstabbing males from my own people.

Entering the cold water of the river and feeling the water flow past me and invigorating me with the cold I move till I stand nearly chest deep in the water, my head now level with his bare and strangely hairy chest I use the soap to work up a latter and begin to help wash him, as he washes me, removing the dirt and grime that cumulated in the past few days on us. He grins an impish grin as he ruffles my short silvery white hair before he turns me around and washes my back. His strong hands rubbing some of the tension out of my muscles as he rubs the soap in… I can smell however that the man who sold as the soap lied, there is a very faint scent that my sensitive nose barely picks up, it’s a pleasant smell however, but I best not tell my companion he hates unnatural scents as it might warn the animals that we need to eat.

Once we finish the pleasant chore of washing ourselves we move out of the water and use the rough “towels” to dry ourselves off as best as we can before putting our clothes on and grabbing our equipment and moving in the direction the four thieves headed yesterday.

I love winter.
The blanket of thick white snow covers the ground making it difficult for the animals to gather food and many are sleeping, hiding in holes or they have moved away from this forest to warmer and more remote areas. But some were truly ready for the cold to sweep in, they spend the entire fall preparing themselves, hiding away food, storing it till they need it, and now they are the ones who for the duration of winter are the ones who can call this forest there own, as they only have to share it with us, four thieves and the other animals that prepared for winter. Here only the smart, cunning or resilient survive.
I love winter. It is cold and uncaring, yet it is not cruel, it takes life, yet it also gives to live. During winter I feel alive, the cold winds sting in my eye, and snow covers my gray cape and my hair, I keep moving my fingers, keeping the blood pumping though my hands.

Looking at my companion moving silently before me with a grace that can only be learned by experience I remember the first moment we met each other, the first winter that I ever experienced, the fifth day that I spend on the surface nearly ten years ago. The cold was odd, until I was forced to leave my home I didn’t even knew what cold was, having never experienced it before. I can’t help but chuckle softly as I imagined what a sight my three sisters and I must have been for the human barbarians as we revealed ourselves in our thin silk dresses. The cold truly hurt back then and I remember I hated it, fearing it would kill me. And then we met the humans, dressed in clothes made from animals skins and pelts I feared they would eat us, instead they mostly ignored us, calling us not worth the effort, with the exception of a few who desired to bed me and my sisters, offering to share their warm blankets if we shared our bodies. I decided to accept the offer of a tall, broad green eyed brown haired barbarian that called himself “Zhan”. I consider myself fortunate in my choice, for a barbarian he was gentle and caring, while not as skilled as the males of my own kind he most certainly made up for that with an actual effort to please.
My sisters refused to sleep with any savage and called me weak that I gave in; they died within three days because of the cold. They held out longer than Zhan expected, because of Zhan I survived, I lost my left ring finger because of frostbite but I still live, so I guess I was stronger than my sisters after all.

I am thrown out of my musing as I nearly bump into Zhan as he comes to a stop before me, He looks at me for a moment before crouching down behind a tree and I follow his lead. He gestures at his eyes and then over fallen log of a tree, he wants me to take a quick look. Pushing myself up with my hands I slightly lean over the log and look down a hill towards a clearing in the forest, and four figures huddled together, trying desperately to keep themselves warm. They are underdressed to say the least; obviously they had not expected to be forced to move out of the city, nor having to stay so long out in the open. One of them wears a white cloak that completely covers her backside and the cloaks cowl is pulled over her face, even if the other three were not there I would have been able to see her, the cloak is to pure of a shade of white to remain hidden among the snow in these woods.
One of the others, dressed in crimson red clothes holds a rather large bag; obviously the bag contains the merchant’s belongings they stole. Each of them carries a small dagger, and the one in the white cloak carries a small sword as well, though it seems to be badly maintained.

Moving back behind the log I look at Zhan and know that we don’t have to worry, nightfall comes quickly and the four thieves seem to have decided to go to sleep there.
We carefully walk away a till we put a little distance between the thieves and us. Zhan pulls off his backpack and sets up camp. While I move away to forage for food, no meat tonight, as a fire would give away our presence to the thieves.
Once I Have collected enough food to suffiently replenish our strength I return to our newly set up camp. We eat and have a soft conversation, the first time in the entire day we say a word to each other, and truth be told I have grown to enjoy the silence, no unnecessary chatter is needed between us to understand each other.
Once we have finished our meal, we lie down on a blanket while pulling the other over us and I soon fall asleep breathing in the scent of the soap we used this morning and still manages to linger on us and the sound of Zhan’s calm breathing.

I love winter.
I awaken when I feel Zhan moving under me. For a moment I feel the need to push him back down and to show him my love for him as he has kept me warm once more during the night, but then I remember that we have work to do and allow Zhan to pull me up with him.

Having collected our equipment we move to the clearing and watch for a moment at the four huddled forms, then Zhan moves forward and takes the bag that they had stolen and he moves away. I remaining standing and look down on the four bodies of the thieves that had frozen to dead.

I love winter.
Ten years ago a young Drow matriarch named Lanell and her three sisters had been chased out of her home, the only world she had known until then she was forced to leave, because she was unable to plan ahead, to be smart enough, to be cunning enough, to be resilient enough and unable to be cold enough, she had learned from her mistake where her sisters had not.

I pull down my cowl and let the cold wind sweep across my face, chasing the sleep away from my mind and sharpening my mind and keeping me alert. I look down at the four bodies, the four persons who had seen to it I had been forced to abandon my former home, the four because of whom I had a new home where I could be more than I ever though possible. When they chased me away I learned from my mistake, at home only the smart, the cunning and the resilient survive, they did not learn from their mistake.
Turning around I look at the one person who can drive the cold away and keep me warm, who allows me to be who I once was, and to be whom I am now.

I love winter… because it reminds me of home, because it is my home.
And I smile.

(Ok so its 5,272 characters)




“The mission is all but to easy for you two, this is a low security base. Guards slack off there are broken cameras everywhere, a piece of cake,” The voice said in their ears, the two looked at each in the darkness of the jump section on the plane. It was flying high above the clouds, pretty soon they would be jumping out of it. “You know the rules, no deaths, unless it’s unavoidable. I would like to see you two come back in one piece.”

“I thought you said that it was low security,” One said in a rather raspy voice.

“ It is, but there is always the possibility,” The voice said. “Now, your reaching the drop off area, get ready.”

“Let’s do this,” James Kriegor said as he looked at his partner.

“Aye,” Hank Domman said next to him.

The two of them were wearing tight body fitting body-suits, made of a polyester material. They were jet gray, the head had a face opening, over that opening fit goggles with an orange yellow tint. They each had a belt, and both had backpacks on.

“And please you two, don’t try to blow up the neighborhood while your still there,” The voice over the radios in their ears said.

“Ok,” Both said, and then the back hatch opened, the wind sucked them out and soon they were plummeting down.

It wasn’t long before they were past the clouds, and they saw the base down below, the glow from the lights, they got closer, closer. Both pulled on a strap, and their parachutes shot up into the air.

It was another five minutes and they were ten feet from the ground, as they floated down they spotted some guards patrolling, luckily their parachutes were black like the night, and they weren’t seen. They landed, and both heard a familiar friendly female tone in their ears.

“This parachute will self destruct in five seconds, five, four…” The voice said.

Both ripped the backpacks from their backs and tossed them away, then they crouched down and covered.

“Three…two…one…”

The backpacks caught flame, and the fire spread up into the parachutes, incinerating them, the two spies looked at each other before splitting up and running off.

The two guards heard the noise and ran over to it, they saw the smoke, but nothing else. They looked at one another, and shrugged their shoulders, right before a hand grabbed onto each ones head and smacked them together, knocking one unconscious.

“Ow!” The other hollered as he held his forehead. “What the hell did you do that for?!”

“Keep silent!” Hank hissed at him as he dropped from the beam and stood in front of the guard.

“You didn’t need to do that!” The guard complained.

“Listen you stupid little henchman, I had to because you are a annoyance,” Hank said. “Goodnight.”

He then smacked the guard up against the back of the head, the guard fell to his knees, crying now as he held onto the back of his head.

“Holy crap man! This is seriously offending me! The knock on the head wasn’t enough?!” The guard said between sobs.

Hank rolled his eyes and sighed before dragging the man into a dark corner and beating the crap out of him until he fainted of pain.



James ran down the hallway, looking for the generator, his mission was to blow it up with the bombs he had in his backpack. He saw shadows coming down the hallway ahead, so he hopped into the air, pulling off the air duct grate and crawling inside. He made his way down it.

The two guards were talking about this and that but then they started to hear a thumping noise, they looked all around, it seemed to be coming from up above. In the ducts…

“What the…?” One started to say.

The thumping was getting closer, directly over top of them was a light; the thumping went right above that.

James continued to crawl but heard a noise, the grate below him was creaking, he looked down at it, and bit his lip, before looking back down the duct.

“Clark, what’s up there?” One guard asked.

“Don’t know,” The other replied.

Then there was a major creak, and the light above them shattered, sparks and glass shards tumbled down onto them, both covered their heads for safety, afterwards they looked up.

“What the hell!” Clark yelled.

Another creak, and the remainder of the light, and the grate fell on top of them, knocking them out.

James dangled from the opening; he looked down at them, before crawling back up and continuing down. It wasn’t much longer before he reached the generator; he hopped down from the ducts, and walked up to it. He placed the bombs on the side, and smirked at a job well done.

“Hank, let’s get out of here,” He said and then took down the hall.

Hank had just mugged another guard, and was looking at the mans wallet as he drug the body into a shadow so no one would ever find out he beat the man up.

“William Nelson eh?” He said as he looked at the body. “Age 35, two children, a wife…you’ve got quite the life for you. Why are you an brainless henchman?”

He knew the body wouldn’t answer but he kept trying to start small talk, then finally James came running from around the corner.

“Ah there you are,” Hank said. “Job well done?”

“You bet’cha,” James said pulling the remote detonator from his belt. “Once this baby goes off the world’s biggest candy producing factory will be down, and the business men can’t conquer the Earth.”

“Explain how they would, with candy…” Hank said.

“Well, they would make the candy so full of sugar and caffeine, that the kids would be so hyper constantly, the parents would go nuts, but they would use the candy as a way of bribing the kid to calm down. Little do they know that the candy is causing the kid to hype up,” James said. “So by using the candy to control the kids, they can use the kids to control the adults, with control over the adults, they have conquered the world.”

“What a sad place that would be,” Hank said.

“Yes,” James said.

There was a slight pause as they thought over everything; little did they notice the guards who had come around the corner.

“Hey you two!” One guard yelled. “Stick your hands up!”

Hank looked at James who looked at Hank, both shrugged their shoulders. James pressed a button, and a giant explosion rang down the hallways, several guards fell over, James and Hank remained standing.

“Shoot them!” The lead guard yelled.

“Well, there goes the neighborhood,” Hank said. “Escort Plane, we are ready to be picked up. Come on James lets go.”

And with that they took down the hallway away from the guards who were firing off their machine guns like mad after them.

Please limit the length of your story to 5000 words or less (sorry, GMC).

"5,272" characters sounds within that limit. Unless the average characters per word is fewer than two...

Which, judging by the quality of the writing, is hardly the case :)

Do you want this writing to be written now, or from RP's?

I could give links to threads...or do you want a short story?

Do you want this writing to be written now, or from RP's?

I could give links to threads...or do you want a short story?
If it's from an RP that's fine, but I'd like to not have to read through an entire thread to catch the gist of the post. Something self-contained is preferable, and posted to this thread. Sorry folks, but I'm ignoring posts that just link to RP. Links to stories off-site (provided they're self-contained stories) are the exception.

YAR! Ahoy thar, minnows! I be helpin' out Cap'n Treznard in this here fiasco! I'll be submittin' me own work in short order!

...YAR!

The Nation Formerly Known as The SLAGLands
Still NationStates' Leading Cause of Blindness
The Disputed Territories of The Ex-SLAGLands

A little story I wrote on an Arvon Foundation course in the Summer.

Copyright Christopher P---- 2004

Those of you who know Isam might notice some similarities...

Heretic

Thomas Roget hurried home, the driving rain seeming to penetrate the knitted wool jersey he was wearing. It was quarter to eight, almost curfew. He did not want to be caught by the Church. He could remember the days before the Fires of God, as the Church called it, the nuclear holocaust that had decimated the world. No one knew who had started it, either the United States or China, or exactly when, sometime during the trade-war that had erupted between the two superpowers. That had been a good time, when the British were free. That was before the holocaust, though, before the Church came to power. Before the Curfew and the interrogations, before the domination of Christianity and the suppression of the heresies, before the constraints upon Muslims and Jews, before the genocide of Buddhists and Hindus. The Church had taken the opportunity to rise after the Holocaust before any other, they had managed to find the caches of weaponry developed in the twenty-first century and had taken control. Polytheism, Atheism and Agnosticism were banned, on pain of death. Yes, Thomas was afraid. He was afraid of the army, he was afraid of the Nazareth Stormtroopers, but above all, he was afraid of the fanatical Interrogator-Chaplains. Thomas the man was afraid, Thomas the father and husband was afraid, Thomas the Hindu was afraid.

He bowed his head to the soldier standing at the street corner, huddled under a building’s overhang. He knew this soldier, a neighbour of his called James. James was a good man, but he would not hesitate to turn Thomas over if he knew Thomas’s beliefs. With a friendly wave his neighbour called out: “Hurry home, Thomas…Too dreary a night to be caught out after curfew!” Thomas took the hint and waved back, hurrying along to his front door. He shifted his bundle onto his hip, pressing against the door to stop the shopping from falling to the ground while he fumbled for his keys. While he fumbled the door creaked open and Ellie, her face smiling with relief, appeared in the gap. She pulled open the door as he grabbed the bags of groceries and stumbled in. As their daughter, the little blonde Sue, came running up he dumped the shopping on the hall table and grabbed her in a hug, thankful, as always, that the Chaplaincy had not discovered their beliefs.

“I’ve arranged for us to get out of here”
Sue had been put to bed an hour ago, Thomas and Ellie were now talking in quiet tones at the kitchen table by candlelight – electricity was strictly limited, few power stations still operated.
“Thank Krishna for that! When?”
“A fortnight’s time, we’re taking a boat to Italy, and your family come from there, so we might be able to link up with some relatives.”
“Sue won’t understand why we’re leaving”
“No, but she’ll come... better to take her from her friends than let her become another slave to the Church”
“She’ll be happy to finally be able to worship in public. Have you got passes?”
“Yes…the Deacon thinks that we’re going to Italy on holiday, I’ve also offered to pick up a replacement part for the generator.”
“Good. He doesn’t realise it’s a one-way ticket?”
“No.”

The knocker slammed against the door once, twice, thrice, the sound reverberating through the house. It was accompanied by the voice, barking “Open in the Lord’s name!” Thomas jerked awake, scrambling out of bed and pulling on his dressing gown and hurrying downstairs. The knocking came again, “Open in the Lord’s name!” Thomas drew back the bolts as Ellie came down the stairs behind him. On the threshold were four soldiers, in the black uniform of the Nazareth, silver lightening bolts embroidered upon the breast along with their motto – You have called down the thunder, we are the lightening. All this he saw in an instant, before his eyes snapped to the man in the centre. A man wearing a long black trench coat embroidered with holy devices that was the uniform of the Chaplains, a trench coat riddled with pockets in which a chaplain kept the tools of his bloody trade. The man’s face was thin and hard, his black hair turning grey at the temples and lines at the corner of his eyes. The epaulets attached to the trench coat showed his rank. Thomas bowed and stepped back mumbling “Welcome to my home, Chaplain-Colonel, the Lord’s blessing upon you”. The Chaplain swept in, a resonant voice saying “The Lord keep this house and its people, his blessing upon all God fearing people within.” Then, his eyes upon Thomas: “Search the house.”

As the soldiers made a thorough search of his home, Thomas followed the Chaplain’s passage as he searched the bedrooms, trying to talk to the Chaplain as if nothing was wrong.
“Sir, may I ask why the uniform of the Chaplains and Stormtroopers is black, while that of the regular army is camouflage?”
“Of course, Citizen Roget. There is darkness everywhere; the demons pervade the world. The uniform of the Chaplaincy and the Nazareth symbolises the inner purity that we have received by flagellation and vigil by demonstrating the darkness around us.”
“Thank you, Chaplain-Colonel, I have often wondered”
“Curiosity is no sin, Citizen, up to the point where one partakes of the forbidden. Do not forget the Original Sin of Adam and of Eve.”
Thomas could not think of anything to say and so simply bowed his head and went to comfort his daughter. The Chaplain’s monotonous voice troubled him, so far he had displayed no emotion whatsoever. Thomas had heard that the Chaplains had their emotions removed during their training, leaving only devotion to the Church. And hatred of heretics.

Once again in the hall, Thomas hugged his wife and his daughter to him as the soldiers and Chaplain came together once more. One of them was holding a pile of books. The Chaplain spoke a single word, the result of which could mean the Roget family’s salvation, or their destruction.
“Report.”
One of the soldiers, who was carrying a small amount of jewellery, saluted.
“Chaplain-Colonel, Sir! Nothing significant, some items are either family heirlooms or from a suspect source, but nothing heretical, save these.”
He handed it to the Chaplain, a simple medallion showing Krishna. Thomas held his breath, dreading what might come next. Instead of the Chaplain speaking the soldier bearing a pile of books showed them to the Chaplain. A number of them had been declared heretical and illegal to trade in.
“Explain, Citizen Roget.”
“My lord...we were once a Hindu family, but we converted to Christianity nineteen years ago, one year before God’s great and loving Church came into power. Deacon Lycus suggested that we keep the medallion and texts as a reminder of our former heresy and an example of our foolishness, to keep us upon the path of the Lord.”
The Chaplain looked searchingly at Thomas before nodding. He then produced a scroll from somewhere and signed it, handing it to Thomas.
“God loves a sinner come to his repentance. This house has been searched and found pure by Chaplain-Colonel F. Hood. This scroll attests to that. Present it should any but a Chaplain of the Lord decide to search this building. You will be free from searches for one year.”
The Chaplain handed the medallion to Ellie and the soldier gave the books to Thomas. Thomas bowed low to the Chaplain and mumbled his thanks as the Chaplain and the Nazareth stalked out of the house, pulling the door to behind them. Thomas glanced at Ellie and dumped the books on the hall table before collapsing with relief. People who were taken by the Chaplaincy were never heard of again.

“Hurry up, we have to hurry”
“We’re coming, love, we’re almost there…”
The Rogets, their most valuable possessions, along with enough clothes to cover their story, were in bags that dangled from their hands as they hurried along the docks. To any passers-by they would appear to be simply a family hurrying past to catch their boat for a holiday. The heat was oppressive, the sun beating down upon their shoulders as they ran. It seemed to Thomas to be a good omen – the gods were blessing them on their journey. They reached the gangplank of their ship and Thomas rummaged for his boarding pass. Once he had found it he displayed it like a thin paper shield, before boarding the ship.

Soon afterwards, he was on the bridge with the captain – one of the benefits of having the support of a Deacon in this matter. He turned to the captain and smiled, saying:
“Will we be underway soon?”
“I will, certainly. But I am afraid that you will not.”
Thomas felt dread creeping into his limbs, as he saw the expression of the captain.
“What do you mean?”
“I am sorry, Thomas Roget, but I fear that you have run out of time.”
A new voice intruded upon their conversation, a deadpan, resonant baritone.
“On the contrary, Captain James Carlyle. Citizen Roget has all the time in the world.”
The sound of boots echoed on the deck, as four men took up position on the bridge, their rifles aimed at Thomas, Ellie and Sue.
“All the time in the world.”

This is something I'm working on for a class, and it's within a strict form, so please excuse the jumps:

“All the king’s horses and all the king’s fools…” But that wasn’t how the rhyme went at all. Couldn’t she remember the correct words? Danielle felt like Alice down the rabbit-hole - twisting and turning, unable to right herself, to even remember who she was (perhaps I’m Mildred, she thought) - waiting, still waiting for the journey to end, the inevitable jolt that would bring her back to reality, to the comfortable knowing exactly where she stood in life, or sat for that matter; it really didn’t matter, she supposed, giggling, then realizing with a twinge of horror that those people could see her; they knew that she wasn’t able to control herself or her fate, and that they were the ones in control! Even now, they were probably screaming with laughter at her panic. Fool, she scolded herself. Good girls didn’t get themselves into these situations. How could she escape their clutches?
“I remember now,” she cried aloud, feeling sanity settle back around her like a cloak. Just breathe slowly and calmly and they’ll never know how close you were to snapping. “King’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again”, she finished the poem in a rush.
“Luv, are you alright”, her mother asked, rising from the straight-back chair to comfort her distressed daughter.
“Mrs. Anderson, we must insist that you sit down! No one is allowed to interact with the patient at this stage in the testing.” Only the piped-in voice echoed in the cold examining room now, bouncing off taupe walls.
“Please, oh, please let me help her.”
Quiet now, Danielle sat crumpled on the floor. Rocking herself back and forth, the little girl began to softly hum, the noise growing in intensity with each passing second. She began to keen and suddenly belted out that quality song from Annie. “The sun’ll come out tomorrow…” Uninhibited again, Danielle pulled herself to her feet and started spinning in circles, ever faster, her arms spread wide, her face to the ceiling. Violently spinning like a top, she knocked over a chair and nearly broke her mother’s jaw. With the end of the song, her spinning abruptly ceased and she fell to the floor again.
"Xenogenesis" was the word the doctors had used to describe her officially, but now her helpless mother could imagine the other choices: monster, freak, psycho. Young as Danielle was, she had become too much to handle. Zany though she might be, Danielle had to become a ward of the state, for everyone’s sakes.

This is a little thing I've been working on, it's work in progress, but just tell me what you think of it so far.




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In a hole at the bottom of the garden, a boy lay. He looked like an ordinary boy to any passer-by, although there were none for this was secluded country. If I gave you a description I would say he stood at around 5 foot 7, with cloudy blue eyes and heavily tanned skin.

But I cannot be sure of this, it has been many years since I saw him, and it seems that every different person who sees him sees a different boy. Certainly, those that I have spoken too have given me reports far different from my own ideas, and each others. So I’ll leave it at my own description, though feel free to make up your own.

Maybe he appears to every different person what they expect, that is part of the magic of him.

And indeed there is some magic with him, though nowadays many of the things attributed to him can be done by clever tricks and a little know-how.

Still there must be something in it for the first person I met who claimed to have seen him was my own father and this was long ago, before cars have been invented.

The strangest thing is that he seems not to have aged a day since my father saw him, or I did for that matter, it may be that he is blessed (or maybe cursed) with eternal youth, a virtue long desired by many and found by few.

Those that do find the sacred gift, find it more of a curse. Imagine, seeing your friends wither and die while you get older!

He told me that he got his gift by the touch of an angles wing, but other times he said it was from the first babes laugh and the touch of dewdrops upon his nose on the first Tuesday of January. He never seemed to be precise on such matters as he never was on his name.

He would make up all sorts of untruths and tell you different things. He would change his story completely after maybe a few minutes, first telling you his name was John and then when you called him that Rob. Privately I think he wasn’t sure himself.

Another mystery is where he comes from, to me he looked an Italian, or someone from the south. To my farther he looked like a highlander, and spoke with a Scottish accent.

At this point it is liable to wonder if they where one and the same, but I assure you they must be, there could not be two such characters in the history of the world.

Anyway on with my tale and it is a curious one, as I have said he was lying in a hole, though how the hole got there I do not know, it was a deep dark one and would have taken days to dig yet when I went out before I went to sleep it was not there.

He was lying in his hole, curled up in a ball and he had his hat drooped over both eyes, looking like rouge or vagabond. His small elvish hands where at his lap and he just sat unmoving.

I had left our house a few minutes before I found him. It was a fine summer’s day and I was taking our sheepdog, Molly, out for a run. Then I saw a mound of earth lying in a pile behind a hedge at the end of the garden. Just next to the stone wall that separated it from the field.

‘That’s funny’ I mused, ‘I don’t remember that being there before.’ Molly ran ahead to it barking loudly, it was not an angry bark, I remember but a happy one like a long awaited and loved master returning home.

Wondering what she was barking about I approached the hole cautiously, remembering a story I read when a monster had dug just such a hole to intrigue his victims and then collapsing the ground beneath them when they investigated why the hole was there. Then he ate them.

But stories are stories and truth is truth and as it was no hole collapsed under me and I successfully made it to the hole that Molly now sat protectively next to.

I looked down and saw the boy. He was dressed in a white shirt with blue leggings and looked just like a mate off some royal navy ship, other than the black tri-corn hat that he had tilted over his eyes.

When I arrived Molly again began barking most enthusiastically at him. He slowly lifted one had, pulled up the hat and stared at me with his piecing eyes. “Do you mind,” he said his voice unbroken and clear yet very low, “Do you mind keeping that dog quiet? I am trying to sleep.”

Now I thought this was very rude and had more than half a mind to go and tell my parents about the funny fellow. But I did not and instead voiced a question. “Who are you?”

He looked up again and a brief half smile passed his lips, “I am the one and only. I am the single most brilliant person on earth that’s who I am.” My patience was beginning to wear away.

“What are you known by?” I asked, slowly and laboriously as though I was speaking to a halfwit or a deaf man.

“I am known by many names,” He claimed, “I have been known as El, Santiaco, David, King Henry and Joana, but you may call me Dave.”

“So, Dave.” I said deliberately placing emphasis on the Dave, “What are you doing in my garden.”

“Who’s Dave?” He responded, not seeming to remember that he had told me a few seconds ago that he was called that. This seems to a common
characteristic in him, he never gives a straight answer and seems to have no memory at all, “I am Justin.”

“But you just told me you where Dave.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.” As you can guess this sort of thing is very infuriating, and my patience was beginning to wear thin.

“Did I?” He was genially shocked, “I didn’t realise.”

“But it was only a few seconds ago!”

“But I forget. I forget so much so soon. Yet I remember to much.” This was another cryptic answer, the boy seized a stick and in large
handwriting wrote in the mud of the hole opposite him.

I AM DAVE.

“There!” He said smiling to himself. “Now I will remember

The rain was driving down like someone throwing bricks from a rooftop. The wind whipped it hard, making a clattering sound as the car sped down the Brooklyn/Queens Expressway towards Manhattan. The occupants, a young male and a slightly older female, do not seem to mind the conditions at all. They're singing along with a Ramone's song on the tape player, bobbing from one side to the other in as much of a dance as the restraints would allow.

The young man looks to the woman next to him after the song finishes. Jesus, how'd I luck out like this? He looks at her short black hair framing her face, and the wide grin plastered there. Her brown eyes narrow as she turns her head and looks at the man looking at her. Her eyes shift from the road back to him. "What's up, Max?"

Max looks into her eyes, and then at the tape collection in its holder next to him. "Nothing, Michelle, nothing. It's just ...." He pauses for a moment as he searches for the right words, his eyes turning skyward. "....well, i'm four years younger than you. You're graduating college and all, and probably leaving the City. What's gonna happen to us?" His eyes look downward at the ground as he brushes a length of braided hair out of his face.

Michelle rolls her eyes, and sighs. "Shit, man. Don't get all wierd on me. I'm not going anywhere. I got a job lined up for me in the City, and the payments are made on the apartment. You can move in with me and get away from your psycho-bitch room-mate. We're gonna be golden." One hand leaves the steering wheel, and rests on Max's. He looks at it, then at her face again. In his mind, he's seeing visions of a wedding ceremony with himself and Michelle standing at the altar. He grins widely, showing small teeth. The man is seriously in love.

Michelle looks at him again, and catches the grin. She laughs a small laugh. "Man, pick a damn tape and quit grinning like you just shat your pants. I wanna get psyched for the show tonight."

Max looks at the tape collection again, and picks up the container to put it on his lap. Two tapes fall out onto the floor of the car. He leans down to pick them up and place them back in order, when he hears Michelle whisper "What in shit...."

A screeching sound is heard from outside the car, and Max bashes his head into the now-open glove compartment trying to sit up and see what all the noise is about. At that moment, the whole car jerks and lurches, nearly flipping over. He could feel wetness coming down on him now as the car spins out of control and crashes into a guard-rail with a smashing sound. His head bashes into the dashboard and he loses consciousness.

When he stirs, E.M.T.s are cutting the straps of his seatbelt and lifting him up. He groans weakly, and lets his lolling head flop about as he is jerked out of the car. "Where's Michelle? Where is she?" His eyes fall on the now topless car he was in, and he sees Michelle.

Or what's left of her, as her neck oozes blood. Just her neck.

"Fuuuuu....." And then nothing but blackness as his mind does a full retreat into itself while the E.M.T.s strap him into a stretcher.

I wrote this a few years back. It could be considered slightly violent I suppose.

:sniper: January 3rd :mp5:

January 3rd, day of my last, the sound of gunfire awakens me. Day after day the battles rage onward outside of my window. If progressions hold true, soldiers will enter my area more and more pronounced hour after hour today. I have seen them passing through in days before. Some lone scouts make a way for others to follow and others in groups of three to four. I harbor no anger towards any of the troops I see. They are only fighting for the country they reside or otherwise taking par in an occupation they chose for reasons only known to themselves. When I see them, mostly in early morning, I watch them carefully. Some are brave enough to joke as they pass by my window as others pass not daring to blink for fear they will miss the pull of a trigger. Some ridden with anger others are over come with sorrow. They know as well as I that no good can come from selfless massacre.

As I finish my rounds of the house I start to put everything I am going to need into a duffle bag. There was not much that was needed for the trip I am going to take. Mentally checking off all of my priorities I had all I was going to need until the war was past this city. I have kept our money, some clothes for me and also my wife whom I am going to meet on the other side of the river running through the center of town. Picking the .32 up off of the table and slipping it in my belt. Just an old Walther my grandfather had given me when my father had passed away. I was told by him some day a man cannot always do what is needed with only his fists. Today I fear may be the day I use this gun. Taking one last look across the house making sure I had gathered everything I would need.

The regret I have leaving the house like this made my chest ache. But that’s the only thing that could be done. The early morning and it’s crisp air made me gasp as I took in the first breath outside. The dawn was blocked by the smoke of death and the fog war. But I still need to hang in the shadows whenever possible. For some snipers I have seen taking positions but at this time I wouldn’t spot them unless I saw the fire of their gun. Broken glass and slight rubble is constantly crunching underneath my feet as I walk. Each noise I make echos endlessly through the city. Possibly alarming members of both armies. I have about a mile to go. I can see the river I am planing on taking to get to the meeting place. The river connects with many tunnels and in one I among others have planned a hiding place until the war passes through. The little light left in the day reflects off of the water and could easily show my silhouette to those looking for them. So I drop down the rivers bank quickly as possible.

The damp mud smells sweet and yet pungent with moss. The mornings dew speeds my decent past what I was expecting as sends my left foot into the water followed by a splash that rings out through the air. I slam myself against the mud embankment and hold my breath in tight. Then the roar of a rifle shatters the silence and sends bullets pounding into the mud near my right arm. Seeing that I would be able to make it underneath a bridge for cover I head in that direction as low as possible. Bullets dive into the water near me throwing river rock and sand in my face making it almost impossible to see. Underneath the bridge I take the risk of stopping and resting. Full of fear and high on adrenaline I check myself over incase of injury without notice and am surprised to find that the bag I am carrying was hit twice. I can see the next bridge.

There’s a burning building behind it and I can hear more shots echoing from that direction. Daylight is rapidly increasing and my cover is already blown. I can see people under the bridge but they don’t seem to be moving. Heading there a lower, more this time than the last, I hope to go without interruption. As I get closer I can see the people clearer. I count four and faintly remember that there was four that I would be meeting this morning. But the only thing is they do not appear to be standing there any longer. An illusion or not I don’t know for sure. But as it appears now I can see them hanging from ropes tied to the bottom of the bridge. Fear washes over me and I sprint over to the bodies eager but afraid to find out if one of them is my wife. The second body I check is her. The silent scream still locked on her face and blood from wounds on her body leave stains through out her beautiful complection. The fury that I found in my right then had weighed more than my fear of being discovered. I burst through the entrance of our hiding place looking for any survivor.

I had found some, but as it turned out they were dressed in uniform and had guns much larger than those any normal civilian like myself would carry. I froze not fully understand what was going to happen to me next. They laugh to one another briefly, point their weapons at me, and yell commands in a language unknown to myself. Remembering my .32, I grab and start to fire. I squeezed off to rounds before getting shot in my shoulder. The bullet blew me backwards, wrenching my body so fast my feet hadn’t even a chance to began to move before I was turned fully around. Dropping the gun and screaming as the searing pain went through my body, I hit the ground. One of the soldiers, smile on his face, approaches me, and kicks me in the ribs and yells.

I guessed as to his commands and stood to show him I was stronger than what he thought I was going to be. Picking up my .32 he says something to me and points the gun at me and fires. Throwing me backwards as I take another shot to the other shoulder. He started to yell and I struggled to get up, using all I had in me to do so. He points it at me again, this time at my forehead. The other soldiers whisper back and forth as he does this. He whispers something to me and I hear a click. The flashbacks began instantly.

Okay, this is a story that I posted on NS quite a while ago. It was after my nation had fragmented into many seperate parts. Here, obviously, is where they all came back together again. In depth knowledge of Klonors history will make it a bit clearer, but I don't think it's a necessity. Enjoy!

The Duke sat at his desk, grinning to himself. Life had been good recently. Things had taken a bit of a downturn for a while, what with being killed and all, but he was back on top. Deneb was once more under his rule, his shipyards were under repair and would soon be turning out Galaxy-known ships again, and there was not an enem of Klonor in sight. Yes, it truly was a good day to be Duke.

Yet good things seldom last, even if it is merely a peacful respite being enjoyed in private. For his privacy was soon shattered by the presence of an obviously excited page with a just as obviously important message in his hand.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but the SSS has been used. A message from the base at Gamma Draconis."

"Gamma Draconis? Oh boy, what has Keane gone and gotten himself into this time? WHat nation is attacking us now?"

"Uh......sir.?"

"Wait a second......."

Slowly his face fell, his mind catching up to his mouth as he woke from his daze.

"Hot damn! Give me the message!"

He snatched it from the pages hand, his eyes widening in wonder as he read the first communication he's had from Keane in years.

Greetings Exalted Duke! I bring news from the Draconian-Rossian Alliance, the systems belonging to your most loyal subjects. We have only just recently learned of your return to power, and we could not be more excited. We have eagerly awaited your return, and now that it has arrived we are ready. We would like to enter into negotiations with you for the union of the Draconian-Rossian Alliance with the Grand Duchy of Klonor. We regret having ever left the warm embrace. Please, will you consent to our discussion?

"Sir............should I respond?"

"Yes, tell him.........tell him.......tell him I agree. Tell him we're ready for a United Klonor again."

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Johnas Gate, Viceroy of the Soverign inhabitants of SR-2091, sat at his desk and pondered. Events around the Universe had been a bit mixed recently. In the overall scheme of things SR-2091 was doing well. The Sub-Galactic Power Stations were up and running, making trips to the Milky Way Galaxy, though still not easy, at least possible. Even though negotiations with the ESUS had broken down they'd at least made contact with other civilized nations, leaving hope for more evolved connection with the Galaxy proper. Even the military was doing well, with the recent breakthroughs in Nexus Technology their might had nearly tripled. But still the people of SR-2091 digressed, for something was missing in their lives. Some........connection that had been severed, a part of them that had been simply sliced off. They still longed for companionship. The companionship of Klonor.

His interlude was interrupted by various beeping sounds, his watch and secretary both signaling him that it was 4 o'clock. Time for the daily staff meetings.

In walked his various ministers and aides, all with a myriad of reports ranging from new weapons developments to decisions of the funding of school playgrounds. He listened, nodded where he needed to nod, said 'yes' where a 'yes' was needed, and generally stayed out of the discussion. The Viceroy was mainly a figurehead position; his only real authority came when dealing with other nations, and when you take into account SR-2091's distance from any nation...........well, you can see what I mean when I say he doesn't really do much. However, he was about to be thrust into the forefront of the meeting.

Up stood Was Nurxs, his Minister of Espionage. His title was pretty self-explanatory, it was his job to pay attention to what was going on in the Universe and to get the information SR-2091 needed, no matter how he got it. He was quite good at his job.

"Sir, I think you'll be interested in this. All of you."

He turns to address the entire assembly, not just the Viceroy.

"We have news from the Draconian-Rossian Alliance.........they've made contact with the Duke."

The response was like a bomb going off

"WHAT?"

"How is that possible?"

"There's no way!"

"It can't be!"

"Holy shit!"

A dozen men spoke up at once, all of them voicing the same shock and disbelief. Afterall, how often do you hear that a dead man has been contacted?

"It's true. It seems that the stories of the Duke's.........regenerative abilities were not just stories."

Finally, Johnas spoke up:
"Was, are you actually telling me that the Duke really is immortal?"

"Yes, sir."

"...................."

Was took the stunned silence in stride, for he was prepared for their wonder. He'd felt it himself when he'd first learned of the Duke's reincarnation.

"It seems the DRA has receded further than anybody had predicted, their technology and resources are barely able to keep their ships flying, combat is totally out of their reach. In a recent battle three ships defenses just shut down. They can't keep going on like that, they're just waiting to be annexed. They're desperate, and Deneb seems like a shining beacon of hope."

"Yes, but if Deneb truly is ruled by the Duke again............."

He didn't even need finish the sentence, ever other person present was thinking the same thing.

then we can finally go home.

"I want the New Dawn 03 out of dock in half an hour! Get her fueled, crewed, and put some diplomats on her. Now! We're going to Deneb! We're going............home"

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Supreme General Yunger Keane sat at his desk, positively vibrating with rage.

That idiot! Retreating like that! He might as well has sent up a giant flare above a sign "Attack here!" I understand that he couldn't stay there with his ships just falling apart, but there must have been something else he could have done. He may have just signed the death certificate of the DRA.

He kept stewing for hours, going over the same situation again and again. No matter where he ended, it didn't look good.

"Sir? I have a message for you......"

Keane looked up in anger, his rage easily visible

"What? What the hell could be so important that you'd just barge in here?"

"We have a transmission from Deneb, sir."

"Deneb? What the hell could they want?"

"I don't know, sir. It seems like the Duke is inviting you to a conference."

"Really? Hmmmmm, this could work to our favor. Something big must have happened. Something............big. Ready the Colossus. The Colossus still works, right?"

"Uh........yes, sir."

"About damn time something worked. Okay, ready the Colossus and lay in a course for Deneb. I'll be boarding within the hour. Let's head to Deneb. I think me and the Duke have much to discuss........."

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Admiral Calvin sat in his office, fear evident upon his face. He was playing a dangerous game, one that could cost his life if he screwed up. However, if he pulled it off..............

A page knocked timidly, poking his head within the office and seeking for permission to enter

"Sir? May I enter?"

"Yes, Anns, come on in. Have a seat. Any news?"

"Uh.......yeah. It looks like it's all going well. Keane is on his way to Deneb. We were lucky, though. I still don't see how none of the observers caught our signal."

"It doesn't matter. As long as it got through undetected. Maybe this thing will actually work."

"I hope so, sir."

"As do I, Anns, as do I."

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Normally the crew members abord the Massometric Stations had very simple lives. Go to work, stare at blank screens for hours on end, go home, sleep, and then it loops back to the beginning. There's the occasional stray asteroid or abandoned ship, but usually their monitored areas were devoid of anything worth noticing. Of course, there are always bizarre exceptions to the norm. Such as when a ship nearly three km long with power levels higher than anything previously encountered suddenly pops into the system and begins broadcasting.

Attention inhabitants of Deneb, this is Captain Ceer abaord the New Dawn 03, escorting the Viceroy of the Soverign Nation of SR-2091. Brothers, we have finally come home! We seek a meeting with the Grand Duke Solomon Klonor, as well as safe passage to the Denebian shipyards above K-Deneb. Please respond.

Tros Weod just stared, mouth gaping wide. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. That ship, the New Dawn 03 as it called itself, was unbelievable. The sensor readings were staggering, he was reading energy levels equal to dozens of MiniStar Engines. Weapon scales were off the charts. Hell, even the size was mind boggling. Tros couldn't even blink for half a minute, until the message was on its fourth repetition and finally managed to break through the mental barrier.

"Uh.....New Dawn 03, this is Sensor Station 12 in distant Solar Orbit.......uh.........please hold as we attempt to contact the proper authorities.......and........uh...........please stay on the line."

He then began to type like mad, calling for a dozen computer searches and sending a signal to Fleet Command all at once. Unfortunately, he didn't quite know what to search for.

What the hell is that ship? Where the hell is it from? Jesus Christ, what the hell does it want? Okay........stop.......breathe..........think..........it called itself the New Dawn 03, maybe the computer has a record of it........

Several seconds later.....

Ho-Ly SHIT. A Klonor ship? What the hell? A....what does that say.........a Nexus Class? Jesus H. Christ, that's one of ours? Okay......calm down. Send a message to Fleet Command, the'll know what to do. But what if they dont? Weapons readings are.........what the hell is that thing? Holy crap, I've never even seen a Beam Cannon like that! I hope to God that the Generals know what the hell we're supposed to do

"Attention New Dawn 03, you have been granted access to the Denebian Shipyards. Please proceed at once to the docking stations. Um........ah..........and........uh........welcome to Deneb."

He quickly closes the transmission channel, nearly fainting as he saw the ship open a mammoth Sub-Space portal unlike any he'd ever seen.

Okay......it's gone now. Well, at least it's several billion km in-system. Nothing to worry about. Now just calm down.

At that point another monstrous Sub-Space Node opened and out swooped the Colossus..........

It took quite a while to get a hospital ship out to Sensor Station 12, but the doctors are sure Tros will recover. They say it was only a minor heart attack.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Colossus slowly swam through space, a serene image of both power and grace. It's main engines were dark, only small maneuvering thrusters on the sides were moving it towards the massive space dock in orbit over K-Deneb. This was the first time in decades that the Denebian Shipyards had hosted the famed Colossus, and the crews of both the ship and port were savoring every moment of it. A full overhaul was scheduled, expecting to bring the Colossus back up to peak fighting standards. Of course, if the negotiations didn't go well the Colossus would never leave the dock, but the servicemen were avoiding that particular point of discussion.

General Keane was sitting in his personal quarters, impatiently waiting for the Colossus to dock so he could get down the planet.

"How soon until we're attached?"

"Only a few minutes, sir. There's some minor incompatibilites between the station and the ship. It looks like there's been a few changes since the last time."

"Yes, of course. Notify me the instant we're docked. I want to get down to the planet as soon as possible, the Duke must have something extremely important to say if he even approached me."

"Yes, sir. What I don't get is why you don't just use a Phase Gate. You wouldn't need to bother with a shuttle then."

"You don't think I've thought of that? The Duke has had all the Vicegral palace Phase Gates taken off-line, I guess he thinks we'll try to attack him."

"Ah. Of course, sir."

"Now, I better get to the shuttle bays. Time to go meet the former employer."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Duke stood on the Palace's private launch pad, eagerly awaiting the arrival of General Keane. He never thought the day would come, but it looked like Klonor was going to finally be One again. He was most excited.

"Sir? The Colossus is almost docked. Keane should be on his way momentarily."

"Excellent."

When the messenger didn't leave the Duke turned back to him, a bit perplexed

"Was there something else?"

"Yes, sir. There's that other ship which just arrived. You know, that Nexus ship."

"The Nexus..........oh dear God. I completely forgot about them! What have they said?"

"Not much, sir. The ship is the New Dawn 03. They claim to be from SR-2091"

"The New Dawn 03? SR-2091? Oh-My-God. We thought they were lost! There were no communications! We didn't know!"

"Sir?"

"Transmit an immediete signal to that ship. Get a representative down here as soon as possible. I need to talk with them."

"Yes, sir. But what about General Keane?"

"Oh bloody hell. We can't send him away..........have him come down as well. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone. Inform them both that the other will be there. Maybe this will all turn out for the best. God I hope so."

"Yes, sir."

The Duke was still excited, but it was a much different form of excitement now.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Johnas Gate stared out of his cabins window, awed at the size of the Denebian Shipyards. He'd been a child when their colony fleet had left Klonor space, barely able to even remember what the shipyards looked like. So many factors were a mere blur in his mind, decades away from home often leaves some rather large gaps in the memory. But that didn't change the fact that this was home, and joy filled his heart at seeing it once more.

"Sir, may I enter?"

"Of course Wells. What news do you bring?"

"Nothing much, sir. Standard communications between the ship and the station requesting supplies, and that's pretty much it."

"I suppose that's to be expected. I bet there a bit confused about why we aren't dead."

"Yes, sir. Hold on one second....... I'm getting a transmission from the bridge. We have a message from the Duke!"

"Spit it out!"

"He wants to arrange a meeting, sir! He says that he'd like to have a representative commute down and sit in on the negotiations between him and Keane."

"Really? Excellent! Tell him I'll be there in 15 minutes. Then send a message to the docking bays, have an Elysium fueled up and ready to go as soon as possible. I'm going to meet the Duke!"

With that he walked to the wall, pressed in a complex series of numbers, and promptly stepped through it to the docking bay some 2.6 km away.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The three men sat at a table, three different emotions drawn clearly on their faces.

One man had nothing but awe, his mind barely able to comprehend the fact that he was sitting there with the Duke Solomon Klonor.

One man nothing but calm indifference, his mind still not even sure why he was there.

The third man had nothing but fear. Not fear for his life, or for the lives of his people, but for the life of his nation. Any problem's here could plunge Klonor into a civil war it could not hope to survive.

The Duke spoke first, breaking the terrible silence

"So, did either of you see any good menties recently?"

"Well, there was this good documentary on recently. It had to do with....well......with you. The Manifest Incident I believe it was. Sir, if I may say so, you were simply magnificent."

Three guesses as to which man said that.

"I nearly fell out of my seat when you......."

"Excuse me, but I was there after all."

"Oh. Right. Yes, of course, sir."

"If I might butt in, I'd like to know why the hell we're here."

"General, I was about to ask you the same thing. After all, it was you who made the first move."

"Me? Are you insane? All I got was an invitation to a conference to be hosted by you!"

"Yes, I sent that. After I got your message asking for a conference!"

This went on for quite a while.

Finally, it was Johnas Gate who brought a halt to the bickering.

"If I might butt in this time, who the hell cares? We're all here, so let's work with it. Now, it seems to me that we are at a rather interesting moment in history. We three men control the largest remnants of what was once the Klonor Empire. General Keane, you rule the Draconian-Rossian Alliance which is in posession of the largest portion of the Klonor Space Corps. You have also annexed the system of Regulus, but we wont go there right now. Duke, you rule Deneb which has the Denebian Shipyards, those facilities alone have the capability of supporting and expanding that fleet. Also, your name alone brings power throughout Klonor. My people would gladly submit to your rule once again. I, though powerless in the ruling of SR-2091, am the final word in inter-national relations. SR-2091 has the most advanced technology in the former KE and, to be honest, neither of you has a chance in hell of conquering us. We all need each other, none more or less than the other. We're all here, so why not work together? We can build a new Klonor, better than the old!"

"So, what do you propose?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hours passed. Days flew by. Time had no meaning, the men were in their own little Universe. Fore they were not merely deciding the fate of themselves and their families, they were deciding the fate of nearly 10 billion people. The fate of a nation that stretched across the Milky Way Galaxy and beyond.

"So.............do we agree?"

Silence greeted the question. Silence and awe.

"Yes.......yes, I agree."

"I do, too, but..........."

"But what?"

"But.......can this truly be happening? Did we truly do it?"

"Yes, we did it. We did it!"

"We need to mark this moment. This moment makrs the re-birth of the Klonor Empire!"

"No, not the Klonor Empire. That name never fit. We were never an Empire."

"Then what?"

"Then.........I don't know."

"I have an idea. Perhaps........perhaps The Associated Systems of Klonor."

"I.............I...........I.............. I like it."

"As do I........as do I."

"Then send the announcement. The Associated Systems are here."

Though it's middle of november, I am wondering if this has anything to do with it being National Novel Writing Month.

(go to http://www.nanowrimo.org for more information, I'm doing it.)

The Great, Great Story About A Man Who Knows Nothing
-------------------------------------------------------

"Sigh sigh sigh"

"its not like you didnt find it! hee hee!"

"Sigh sigh sigh"

"But what did you do with it?"

"Sigh sigh sigh"

"OK man, i get ya- don't bring it here- its too cold man!"

After sitting in a chair for almost exactly sixty nine minutes Man finally listened to man. He could hear him, he just wondered a lot. And when he wondered he had to concentrate. And there was an awful lot to think about.

"That chair is DOG hair man, it is DOG hair, dig?"

He did not dig.

"..."

He had listened for far too long, he must concentrate now.

"Sigh sigh sigh"

And it won't change! Although his demons tell him he's coming home he's really not headed there until the early, white christmas comes. And that could be a long, long time away. A long, long, long time in fact. His head began counting again while his mind thought about anything but numbers.

"Sir i must bid you farewell, yes i must."

"Sigh sigh sigh"

All of a sudden, WHOOSH! BANG! Man fell from his chair!

"Not allowed to go in th-five six sev- too dangero-nine!"

He was shouting out loud! Yes he was!

"Oh man i'm too sorry, what can i do to make you feel like a normal man now?"

"TEEEN!! I CANT MISS TEEEEN!!!"

Over and over. And over. Over and Over. He repeated

"TEEEEN!! I CANT MISS TEEEEEN!!!"

man walked to the smallest corner of the room and sat down, he knew he was going nowhere for a while. This great, great man he knew so well had lost it! man could not believe his eyes and ears. Oh lord, thought man what shall i do? what shall i do? The greatest living mind is dead! His mind is dead!

"TEEEEN!! I CANT MISS TEEEEEN!!!"

Lord will you help me now? I love you and so why can you not help me. The Lord entered and looked at Man, and thus spake:

"********"

Man, of course could not understand Lord Language and so blibbled away more, more, more.

Dusk came early that eve and did not stop. And all of a sudden! WHOOSH! BANG! man wondered! He wondered if Man would ever get better! He WONDERED! At once he jumped from the smallest corner of the room and into the chair from which Man had fallen. He sat on the chair and wondered! And Man left the room and fell many times.

man wondered and he wondered. He wondered until Man returned. Man was revitalised and he knew his purpose.

"I Love you, and thank you for helping me find it."

"Sigh sigh sigh"

"And what i did with it was Love, i did Love. That is what i did"

[OOC: Story removed due to it being utterly boring and beyond awful.]

Though it's middle of november, I am wondering if this has anything to do with it being National Novel Writing Month.
I'm familiar with that one, and I realised the timing on my challenge is suspicious, but no, it's not a nanowrmo project. It's a challenge (not a contest, dammit, for the folks who keep referring to it that way) for people to post their best writing. I've already seen some eye-openers, folks I'd never seen before with some fantastic writing skills. I haven't critiqued anyone because I don't want to make this seem like a contest. I'm leaving the critiques up to the community (Oz has said he might help there).

Some reminders for people who aren't paying attention:
Please keep it under (or close to) 5000 words. If I get bored reading it, I'll just skip it. If you think you can't do it within that limitation, by all means write it out and post it under your own thread.
Do not post links to existing NS threads; if you can't summarise it here, don't bother.
Do not post more than one entry, as I don't want this thread dominated by a few prolific writers.
Thank you.

Oh, I forgot the usual "Feedback greatly appreciated!" tag at the end of my post.

I'd love the hear what you all have to say!

Hi! This story is a work in progess so I will be updating it has I write more. All comments or suggestions are welcome and are appreciated! The genre is horror but one of my friends said it was funny, which isn't what I was going for but I suppose it's good. The story is 656 words long, or 2,978 characters long.

Katherine James was on the rooftops of LA, trailing her prey. She could have caught it by now but the longer she let it live the stronger the taste of fear would be in its blood. The animal turned down an alley. Katherine laughed to herself; there was a dead-end on the other side of the alley. She jumped down from the roof and slowly followed her prey. The creature was panicking trying to find an escape route. It saw Katherine walking towards it. It witnessed her face change from the face of beautiful twenty-year-old lady to the ageless and terrifying face that was Katherine’s true identity. Her true face had cat-like gray eyes and her teeth her first canines were long and razor sharp. The color of her tanned skin and black hair drained until she looked like an albino. The animal snatched a cross from its pocket and held it out in the direction that Katherine was coming from.

“Get away from me demon!” It cried out in terror.

Katherine couldn’t help herself; she smiled and slowly taunted, “Sorry human, but today isn’t looking like your lucky day. Crosses, holy water, stars of David and the rest of those holy objects don’t affect vamps of the non-evil variety.”

Without delaying any further, Katherine stepped forward and bit into the man’s neck. The blood was rich with fear; she drank until its heart stopped beating. She dropped the body and drew out a blade from its sheath on her belt. She marked the forehead of the dead man with an “R H.” She licked the blood off of the blade and slid it back into its sheath. Katherine searched the human’s pockets and pulled out a billfold and a pocket watch. She counted the money then stashed her loot into her front pocket.Could probably feed a whole family for a year with this thought thought Katherine. She located a nearby shelter and dropped off the cash, afterwards she headed toward her home.

Idiot creature thought Katherine When are human going to realize that just because someone feeds off of a human, doesn’t make them evil. Other than a few rouge vamps, most evil beings on Earth are human. There’re three basic things that add up to evil. Indulging in any of the seven deadly sins, killing your own kind, and killing anything without genuine reason. Humans seem to think enjoyment is a genuine reason, but its not. Humans…the whole race is filled with hypocritical… She pulled away from her thoughts as she climbed through the window of her apartment on the 13th floor.

Katherine had the luck of meeting a landlord with a fascination of the undead, so she had been living there free of cost for past couple of years. As long as she said a few words to him occasionally, he didn’t ask for rent. Katherine knew every smell and sound of the place. She knew someone was there. She smelt the vampire’s scent floating towards her from her bedroom. Slowly Katherine crept towards the scent She silently slid her blade out from its sheath and with a sudden spurt of energy, burst through the bedroom door. There he was. He didn’t even flinch when he saw Katherine. He just laid on her bed, petting her black cat.

Here is the best story.... EVER WRITTEN.
by Me.
WARNING: teenage guys, YES.
Everyone else, probably a NO.

It was a cold and windy night, and a gunshot rang out. Filler, filler. Lots of description of physical surroundings, etc. Now to the important stuff: tactical positions. The house was a three story, with several outlying buildings; walks connected the grounds. The ground floor windows were boarded over, while the second floor windows and third floor windows were closed. Filler: spiked fence, concrete sidewalk. Four holdouts in shooting position on the second floor, one on the third. Several injured people in the front hall.
Enough suspense.
It's zombies. Wait a second, the crowd squeals. Zombies? Hell yes, zombies, and if you don't like it then shove off. No one knows or cares how they came about, because they are too busy running for their lives. Obviously. Zombies very nearly impossible to kill. Direct gunshot to the head, etc. Filler, filler. They surround the house, ravaging the fence in seconds. The gunners pick off targets, but there are too many. Luckily, the windows seem to give them trouble. Maybe it's the boards, or the steel reinforcement, or the barbed wire. It's enough that it gives them some extra time.
Time..... for some serious lovin'.
As a classic horror/zombie movie gimmick, sex scenes call to mind such questions as:
Can she do that again?
Is that even possible?
What is it about death that fixates people on making babies?
Can she fit it in?
OH MY GOD! No way! Oh hell yeah! Me next, please?
Post-coitus, the main characters clutch each other for dear life. Life has become dear to them for so many reasons; the zombies, the newly formed relationship, the fact that they both die in the next scene. But they take hope in the fact that they know that zombies, in this fictitious universe, can make babies. The same way humans do, except they literally go all night long or until it falls off. That is classic. I should get a prize just for that line.
As more and more of the zombies fall under the expert marksmanship of the snipers and the tide begins to turn, some of the foolish ones begin to hope. Heh, heh. Cut scene to look of hope on little girl's face, just before it's blown away "House of Leaves" style. As the others look on in disbelief and fear, a shotgun bearing Ving Rhames steps out of the basement's trapdoor. Dawn of the Dead numero dos reference here; big black guys with shotguns own. Ving, aka Big Daddy, walks over to the girl's corpse and turns her over. A small, possessed rat blinks upward at the light. A second later it is blown away by a direct shotgun blast.
"Yeah, I got some dialogue in this bit. So all you mothers just shut up and listen to me. I know how to get outta here."
The sexy-but-soon-to-be-zombie woman says, "How?"
Big Daddy points towards the basement and says,"We have to go to the alien ships, through the roads of Hell." Oh gods, yes.
Just then, the gunners from upstairs pound down the stairs. One takes a bead on Big Daddy while another demands an explanation for why an unknown man just shot his daughter in the face.
Unfortunately for everyone, excepting Ving Rhames, I invade wit 600000000000 invisbvle armies!!@q1 I just pwned you hrdcore!@
The End.




Now, comments from the gallery.
"Are you an author?"
No. For very obvious reasons, I sit at home and watch Japanese zombie movies instead of write. Go see BioZombie.
"Will there be a movie version?"
Omg that would roxorz.
"Will you sire my baby?"
Yes. Because anyone who knows what the word "sire" means in that context will be smart enough to use protection until they get to me. No herpes, if you please.
"That was stupid and a complete waste of my time. Why would you do this to the poor, unassuming masses?"
In the immortal words of Gary Larson, "It was late and I was tired."

Thank you, thank me, thank your dead grandmother in Hell. With Ving Rhames.

What did people think of my story? What did it make you think about, i am interested to know.

Murder In Brunswick (A taster)


Strolling down a dilapidated street in the Melbourne suburb of
Brunswick, a menacing figure hovered in the shadows. His name:
Joe Bellugiano, a former detective with the Victorian Police who
had turned his hand to private investigating after quitting the force .
Joe , now in his late forties, always wore black. A black suit, tie, hat, and sunglasses; many of his colleagues at Police HQ called him
“Joliet Jake” because of his uncanny resemblance to the Blues
Brothers front man. The resemblance was so uncanny, that if the
real “Joliet Jake” Blues was still alive and you stood him next to
Bellugiano, you would be unable to tell the difference between
the two. Despite, his former colleagues’ amusing outlook on his dress
sense, Joe himself had his own emotional “briefcase full of blues”
that he carried around with him at all times. Whilst he was still
with the police force, he frequently had to investigate many murders. On of his cases brought him to a multiple homicide, the victims: his
own wife and kids brutally murdered. To this day, these murders have remained unsolved.

Just as Joliet Jake, as he is known in certain circles, walked around
the street corner, he immediately noticed that police cars surrounded
the household of his next house call. As he tries to enter the crime scene, he is immediately stopped in his tracks by Constable Nicholas Thelonius Monk, otherwise known as the “Blue Monk”.
“Sorry Jake, I can’t allow you to enter this property. This is a major crime scene, and there are detectives and the Criminal Scene
Investigators are currently inside”, the Blue Monk explained.
“So what’s the story? What’s going on?” Joliet Jake intriguingly
enquired. “Apparently, the occupant of the house is dead, and they are investigating the cause of death”, replied the Blue Monk.
“Come on, Nick. Can you just let me through: I think I know the
guy”, Joliet Jake asked.
“Look Jake, I’ll turn a blind eye, but this is the last time”, replied
the Blue Monk.
“Thanks Nick, you’re a pal”, Joliet Jake instantly replied.
As soon as the Blue Monk had vanished, and distracted the other
police officers on duty, Joliet Jake immediately snuck into the house.
As he entered the room, he immediately realised that it was his long time colleague and friend, James MacFarlane dead on the floor. As Jake looked around the room, it appeared that there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding MacFarlane’s death. Despite the
appearance of the crime scene, Jake immediately sensed that there was foul play involved in MacFarlane’s death. Nearby Jake’s right foot,
was a key of some sort. He picked it up, and looked at it. It was the key to the back door, and it took very little investigative intuition to work this out. The key had the words “back door key” scribed onto it. Jake immediately put the key in his pocket, making sure he wasn’t seen. Then carefully, he walked through the crime scene, Jake then decided to approach one of the CSI’s, casually asking him, “So, what do you think the cause of death was?”
The CSI replied, “From the gun wound, the traces of blood on the
wall, and the forensics currently working on the fingerprints on the
gun, I’d say that it was suicide.”

Immediately ignoring what the crime scene investigator had said,
Jake began to contemplate why MacFarlane would have suicided, or
why would someone want it to appear to be suicide. Obviously it
would have to be the latter, he thought. Why suicide when
everything’s going right for you: a nice family, good home, great job, and no enemies in the Underworld. After all, his position within the police department was office work and paper runs. He never had any public related work. So if he was murdered, what was the reasoning, why was the murder made to look like suicide ? What had he done to be murdered? Jake pondered for a few moments and decided there could only be one logical conclusion. The killer’s motive was part of
a cover up. MacFarlane must have known something and was
threatening to use the information against the killer. So, what did
MacFarlane know, and who wanted him dead?

“What the hell are you doing here?”, a large, booming, menacing
voice came from behind Jake. Jake immediately turned around to see
where the voice originated from, only to realise that it came from
Detective Dermot Fitzpatrick, the man behind the reason why Jake left the force. Fitzpatrick was a big man, whose bark was worse than his bite, and his bark was frightening enough. A former special operative
serviceman, Fitzpatrick knew over a million ways to kill a man, with
as little effort as possible. “I said, what the hell are you doing here?
This is a crime scene, Bellugiano, and the last time I checked, you’re not on the force anymore. Therefore, you have no right being here!”
Detective Dermot Fitzpatrick angrily shouted.
“So why are you still here then?” Fitzpatrick rhetorically asked.
After gathering his thoughts and composure, Jake replied sarcastically, “I’m just here to reacquaint myself with a few old colleagues.”
“Hey Joel! Hey Katie! How’s the kids?”
“Don’t get smart with me, Bellugiano, why are you here?”, demanded
Fitzpatrick.
“Well if you must know, I came here to visit MacFarlane; just as a
social call. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll escort myself out of the
crime scene” replied Jake.
“What crime? It’s just a suicide! Now, I don’t want to see your face again: keep out of this Bellugiano!”, shouted Fitzpatrick.

Jake immediately left the crime scene, and caught a taxi back to his apartment in Williamstown, just outside of Melbourne. It was
approximately 4 pm when he arrived there. As he sat down on his
couch to watch TV, he attempted to piece together what he had seen
and heard whilst at the crime scene. Pieces of this enigmatic puzzle
were bothering him. He decided he should revisit the scene of the
crime to see whether or not he could find any more pieces of this
elusive puzzle. Jake decided he needed to enlist the services of
someone he could trust and the only person he could think of was his brother, Stephen. Jake rang Stephen and asked him to come over to his apartment, not telling him why. Stephen arrived in his black 1980 Chevrolet, parking just outside the apartment block. “So, what’s the problem Jake?” asks Stephen.
“Come inside and I’ll tell you.”, replied Jake.
They went inside Jake’s flat, and as soon as they had reached the
lounge room, Jake began to talk. “Earlier today, when I was
wandering around Brunswick, I decided to visit my good mate , Jim.
When I arrived at his place, there were detectives everywhere and Jim
was inside, dead.”
“Was there any foul play involved?”, asked Stephen.
“Well, it seemed that there wasn’t, but the circumstances just don’t
add up. They say suicide, but I just do not believe Jim could take his own life. That’s why I called you”, replied Jake.
“So, what do you need me to do, bro?”, Stephen asked.
“I need you to drive me to the crime scene. I want to try and find some clues as to why MacFarlane may have suicided, or why someone needed him dead.”, explained Jake.“But wouldn’t that be a bit dangerous for us, especially with the police involved?”, asked Stephen.
“No, by night time, the detectives and forensics would have already
collected all the information they needed. Anyway, the police wouldn’t be needed there because it has already been confirmed as a suicide
case.”, replied Jake”.
“And I guess the family won’t be returning in a hurry, right Jake?”,
enquired Stephen.
“Exactly!” replied Jake.
“So, we’ll leave about 9 pm tonight Jake?”, asked Stephen.
“Yeah, about that time will do. At least it will be dark by then, and nobody will notice us. Just don’t rev the guts out of your Chevy this time!”, replied Jake.
“Alright, already! I get the message!”, replied Stephen.
In the dead of night, Jake and Stephen arrived in Brunswick to
check out James MacFarlane’s house for any clues that could explain MacFarlane’s death. They parked a couple of blocks away from
MacFarlane’s so nobody could identify the car and to dispel any
suspicions within the neighbourhood. As Jake suspected, there were no police on duty. Jake and Stephen put on latex gloves to ensure that their fingerprints didn’t get on anything.

The two snuck in from the back, using the key Jake picked up
earlier in the day. Immediately, the split up and began searching the
house: Stephen went to the bedroom, and Jake went to the study,
where he found James MacFarlane’s personal laptop. Jake turned it on.

After it had started, Jake found a computer folder full of mysterious files. Jake selected one at random and opened it. Just as he started to read the file, he heard Stephen’s voice. “Have a look at these!”.
Jake turned around to see his brother holding a bondage whip and a pair of gold handcuffs. “Look what I just found in the bedroom,
Jake”, exclaimed Stephen. “You idiot! Get rid of them now. You
were supposed to look for clues.” replied Jake.
“The room was clean, besides these.” replied Stephen.
Jake then proceeded to read the file, when suddenly he spotted
something. “Listen to what it says in this letter, ‘The deal has been done, and the money will be coming soon’.” exclaimed Jake.
“Something’s certainly fishy here, Jake”, replied Stephen.
Soon after Stephen stopped talking, a banging of door was heard from just outside the front. “I think there’s someone’s out there, Jake. Grab that laptop, and let’s get out of here”,
“That’s fine by me, Steve. Just as long as you leave that bondage
gear behind!”

Just as Jake and Stephen snuck away into the night, two mysterious men snuck into the house and poured petrol throughout the rooms. Moments later, the house was a blazing inferno. No signs of these mysterious men ever being there.

I wrote this last year for a rp thread of mine - one that had been building from almost the first month of my play here on NS. I've always been fond of it, in a twisted sort of way, and in reading back I found many mistakes I wished to change, and to see it all in one piece with the tenses all matching, so ... meh. It is all original. It does contain imagery of torture and such things as some might find distasteful so be warned. No, not over the top, and not trying to be, but I believe the disclaimer necessary for more sensitive readers.

I'm working on other pieces currently, but in having some difficulties, I thought that perhaps cleaning up something I thought worked out well might serve to kick start the creative juices a bit.

So ... here it is. (just a wee bit over the limit - mea culpa)

--Nathi's Player

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

It had been a week since the traitor had burst into this office, so full of himself ... so confident. She turned her face to the window, looking out over the bleak view of her city in the rain. Often, the stormy weather brought comfort, seeing the water washing things clean, seeming to bring new colors out of the bricks and painted stucco walls, watching the play of the wind and the clouds.

But not today. A grey pall seemed to hang heavy over the city, the clouds low and threatening. Thunder rumbled in an almost constant boom, the sound ebbing and flowing. Lightning flashes occasionally lit up the sky, striking sharp contrasting lights against the washed-out buildings. The waters of the Canale were dark and choppy, with few venturing out on them to brave the dreary weather.

Her brow was furrowed in thought as she sat, looking out through the rain-streaked window. The ice in her water had long since melted, the glass sitting untouched on her desk in a pool of condensation. It was past time, and she knew it.

She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, her eyes closing for a moment, then she stood and made her way resolutely to the door. Down the hall she walked, the heels of her boots echoing dully through the long corridor. The few faces she saw going about their duties shrunk back at her approach, some flinching as if expecting a blow after catching a glimpse of her cold expression. Hushed whispers seemed to spring up in her wake, furtive glances and knowing looks cast behind her back, with many a nod at the direction her steps were taking her.

Opening the ironbound door at the far end of the hall, she stepped out into the cool air, and onto the Bridge of Tears, two stories up from the canal below. Completely enclosed, it differed from many of the other bridges in the city, though it retained the feel and beauty of the others. It was dark, save for the stone-worked lattice openings situated at regular intervals along its length where the dim light of the overcast day leaked in. Through those small windows had many a condemned caught his last glimpse of the outside world before entering the prison beyond. The wind whistled through the crevices as she crossed the passage, its floor worn with the crossing of many feet over the years. She shivered in spite of herself. Coming to the end, she opened the other door, a mirror of the first, and entered into the Prigioni Scura, the old prison from the days of city-states and Doges.

Other than some structural fixes, little had changed in the prison over the years. The lower level in fact, had been somewhat restored and used for the tourism industry. But here, in the back, away from the busy Piazza and the crowds, hidden from the view of curious passersby, it was cold, worn, and gloomy. Old, worn stone pavers made up the floor, in many places, split or chipped. The stucco walls might once have been white, but time, dirt, and the constant burning of candles, now replaced by dim electric lights, had greyed their color and streaked them in centuries old grime.

The six cells along this hallway were all empty, save for one. Outside it sat a box, a surgical bag, and a large plastic cooler full of ice water, as she'd directed. Even before she opened the old wooden door, she could hear the distinct sounds of someone in pain emanating from the small cell.

Through the door, there was an oddly shaped cell covered in ancient wooden planking, stained from the nails that held them in place, rotted through in spots. A small short footstool sat in a corner, as did a bucket in another. A long, very old wooden table fixed with two four-handled cranks, one at each end, and six rollers, covered in small spikes sat up along the left hand wall. And from the arched ceiling, from an old wrought-iron hook mounted there, hung a man. Until a few hours ago, his wrists and elbows had been bound with rope behind him, then pulled back and up onto the hook via a length of the rope, leaving him hanging in an agonizing position, his toes swinging just above the floor. He wore not a stitch, and his body showed the signs of a week’s worth of rough treatment.

When they had dragged him here, it had been to simply sit naked, shackled ankle chains attached via handcuffs to wrists in lengths short enough to prevent him from standing or stretching out. Water had been provided on an infrequent basis in a small pie tin, forcing him to lap it up as best he could like a dog. This was the first day.

On the second, his muscles already cramped, he had been hung upside down for hours on end, his hands bound behind him. Occasionally, guards would come in to wash him down with buckets of cold water splashed over him, and he had to get what liquids he could to try and quench his thirst during those times, filthy or not. These cold ‘baths’ became a regular occurrence, sometimes accompanied by rough scrub brushes were he particularly foul.

The third day, he was forced to sit atop a metal board with several long lengths of pointed corrugation bolted atop it, its hard metal edges digging into his flesh mercilessly, his elbows bound to his knees, and wrists to ankles with scratchy hemp rope tight enough to hurt, but not to cut off circulation, and his neck kept firm by a metal manacle set in the wall. He was force-fed a bitter pork broth that was entirely too salty in content. The thirst had been as unbearable as the seat, and the scrubbing he received at the end was unbearable. No water was forthcoming other than what little he managed to lap up when the bucket was dumped over him.

When dawn rose on the fourth day, he had been given a brief reprieve. His sores were tended to, a succulently rich meal was allowed ... which he ate entirely too quickly. His stomach, after going so long without decent food and ample water, cramped horribly. When he complained, he had been beaten with long tubes filled with dry rice, delivering painfully solid but undamaging blows over his already aching body.

For the entirety of the fifth, he was doubled up inside a confining wooden box with very little ventilation, and left for the entire twenty-four hours. The filth and the stench of bodily fluids, sweat, and excrement were unbearable. He was hardly able to breathe, let alone budge in the cramped space. By the time they let him out, he was screaming in shrill panicked gasps like a stuck pig.

That morning of the sixth, he was moved swiftly from his cramped position to one more stretched out, giving him no time to adapt. A leather collar with D-rings in both the front and back was affixed to his neck. To the back ring, his wrists were pulled up behind his head, and handcuffed. He was made to face the wall, and linked with a small screw lock carabiner to an old iron ring there, placed at such a height that he was forced to stand up on his toes to breathe properly. Each time the already cramped muscles in his legs gave, the collar pressed viciously against his windpipe.

Which brought him to today, hanging as he was from one wrist from the hook in the ceiling, his shoulder, obviously dislocated from the strain of his weight. The cell stank from human waste, sweat, and blood, as this day neither he nor his surroundings had been washed as a final insult. His head was slumped down on his chest, his breathing ragged. An occasional anguished sob wracked his body, and when it did, yet more noises of pain whistled and squealed forth as the movements jogged his shoulder. His bound wrist was covered in scratches and dried blood where he'd tried to claw himself loose from his confinement. At the opening of the door, he weakly raised his head, and looked at her with haunted, yet burning eyes.

"I knew you would come, Nathicana," he managed to hiss through clenched teeth. "Have I entertained over the past week or so?"

She looked at him coldly, her face void of any real emotion. "Hardly. To truly be entertaining, one needs a subject with backbone, intelligence, or at least, wit. You have none of these things, you weak, pathetic excuse for a man." Her tone never took an edge; she simply spoke in a cool distant tone.

He snarled at that, instantly regretting the effort as he winced and yelped in pain once again. "Filthy bitch," he half-whimpered, still staring at her hatefully.

The woman said nothing, simply retrieved the stool from the corner, and a knife from her boot, and walked back over to him. At the sight of the knife, he struggled weakly, crying out again in pain and fear. She ignored his struggles, stepped up on the stool, and cut the rope holding him aloft, and he unceremoniously collapsed on the floor with a roar of pain.

In a business-like manner, she kicked the stool back towards the far corner, and tucked her knife back in her boot. She moved behind him, and grabned his arm and shoulder, giving it a sharp twist and push, popping it back into its socket. This of course elicited yet another loud wail from Mateo, who jerked his arm back in against his body, hunching over and hugging himself tightly, muttering imprecations in their native tongue.

She watched with cool disdain for a moment, then drug him forcibly to his feet in a seemingly effortless manner. He was struck once again by the unnatural strength she had, and his eyes widened on account even as he yelped from pain and surprise. Sitting him down on the table she went about fixing his ankles in the appropriate straps, her hands wrapping 'round his feet firmly, forearm pinning his shins down against the ancient wood. As he leaned forward to try and stop her, she casually backhanded him, sending him reeling back and cursing, rubbing spittle and blood from his bruised lips. The woman finished quickly with the legs, then moved on to the arms, pulling them firmly up over his head, and forcing him down onto the rollers, their short but painful little spikes driving their tips into his flesh, eliciting new howls of pain. She maintained her non-nonsense manner, going through the process showing no emotion, not even a hint of irritation, operating like some unfeeling automaton.

Methodically, she checked the straps, gave an experimental twist to each of the wheels, assuring herself that they were all working properly. "You know, for all their pious exteriors, I find the church truly had a taste for the obscenely twisted, don't you? The methods they used to employ ... truly pushed the boundaries back then." She spoke in a casual manner, much as one would over tea. "You have read your history of this place, haven't you Janus? No? Perhaps you'll allow me to enlighten you."

Ignoring his protests she went on, speaking about the horrors of Inquisition and religious persecution as she retrieved the box and the cooler from outside the door. "Accused heretics were imprisoned without hearing the charges against them, and kept in stinking dungeons, dark and vermin infested, alone with their thoughts and their excrement. Moldy bread and stale water helped to supplement the cockroaches and spiders they managed to scavenge."

She unscrewed the lid on the water cooler, and set it aside. "A prisoner who refused to confess could be left in solitude and darkness for weeks, months or even years - all in the interest of saving another erring soul, of course."

Lifting the cooler, she began splashing the ice water over him, washing away some of the filth, ignoring his shrieks. "They had lovely little toys like the 'pear' that were forced into the mouth or other orifices of the victim and there expanded by force of the screw to the maximum aperture of their three segments, with the pointed prongs assisting with the ripping and tearing therein. Nasty business that, don't you think?" she said conversationally.

He was cursing and frothing, venting all manner of insults and spite at her in their native tongue. She of course, ignored it, her cool facade never changing as she continued speaking. "They even used to lash the victims to wooden crosses, then broke the bones of each leg and arm in at least two places with iron bars, leaving them to die. Crude, I admit, but a rather drawn out and painful way to go."

She let the continued images sink into his brain, knowing he'd already suffered horribly, and that the added mental anguish of trying to guess what she was going to do, and how she was going to end it were slowly driving him mad.

I will see him broken. Completely and utterly broken before I finish.

"Of course, the Catherine Wheel, the cages, pressing and the ever popular roasting alive were always crowd-pleasers. Never mind all the blades, prongs, bludgeons, irons and drills those nasty people used. Of course, you find yourself now on one of my favorites. I always thought the rack had a simple yet wicked charm to it." She fetched a plastic cup from the box of odds and ends, filling it from the cooler, and taking her time quenching her thirst.

"Oh ... one last thought should it have possibly crossed your mind," she began in an offhand manner. "No, you wouldn't have died horribly otherwise. Your supposed disease? The one so meticulously detailed in those files saying you were living on borrowed time?" She paused, taking another long sip. "That bit of 'inspiration' that goaded you into moving more quickly than you would have liked against me, you poor deluded man? It never existed. I imagine, had you kept your wits about you, that you would have lived quite comfortably to a ripe old age ... your charts were quite detailed, after all. Would that we were all so frightfully healthy. I'm afraid you've underestimated me from the start, Janus. That, and you seem to have chosen your friends very, very poorly."

A pause, a slight tilt of her head. "Pity."

Mateo was speechless at that, his jaw working silently, eyes wide as the entire Treznor set-up flashed back through his mind. The meetings. The comments by the Emperor. The doctor’s visits. All the secrets. As the blood drained from his face, the full weight of her words sank in, she nodded.

One more support, gone.

Having satisfied herself there, she rolled up her sleeves, took the small folding stand from the box, and began laying out various tools - syringes, bottles, scalpels, needles, surgical thread, and odd little mechanical-looking steel pieces, all in full view of her victim. She left the rags and other clean-up supplies in the box, pushing it aside with her foot.

"Well, my dear Janus," she said turning to him with same emotionless face she'd maintained throughout the procedure. "Shall we begin?"

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hours later, his body stretched and tormented on the wicked rack, Mateo gasped out weakly as Nathicana again tested the bonds on his left arm. For all this time, she had patiently tightened the slack, notch by notch, allowing the full import of his situation to settle in, the pain to dull to a throbbing ache, before repeating the process. Throughout it all, she had chatted nonchalantly about various methods of torture, even going so far as to reveal to him the fate of his onetime replacement, Ambrose Bercier. The retelling of that had left him pale and stuttering.

As evening drew on, one of her aides came knocking at the doorway, his hands carrying both a covered tray and a bottle, and his eyes looking everywhere but the scene inside. His face crinkled up in disgust at the smell and the knowledge of what was going on, the gentle clink of the bottle against the silver cover betraying his shaking hands. She directed him in, took the tray from him and placed it atop Mateo's tautly stretched torso, removing the lid and setting it aside. The man was dismissed with a casual wave of her hand, and he wasted no time in hurrying from the dismal room.

A wonderful, hot meal of lamb with mint pesto, roasted vegetables, and a saffron risotto was revealed, the aroma maddening to the starving man. A bottle of Pietraforte Cabernet Sauvignon accompanied the meal, and she set to with a relish. The woman completely ignored the man beneath the tray, his curses, his pain. She took her time, clearly savouring each and every morsel, allowing him to watch every bite as it passed from plate, to fork, to mouth.

Finally, she turned to him and held out a forkful of lamb and pesto to him, her brow arched. "I know you've had little enough to eat, Janus. Will you bend your stiff neck long enough to at least show some small courtesy?"

He glared at her, his face twisted with hate. And yet, he hesitated. The aroma of the meat had his parched mouth straining to salivate.

"No? Then perhaps I'll just--"

"Yes, yes, I'll take it damn you," he managed to croak as she began to draw back the fork.

Nodding, she let him have the bite, watching him devour it hungrily with an impassive expression, letting the rude response slide. "Perhaps some wine?"

He nodded back, eyes closed as if trying to hold onto this moment, to make it last as long as possible. Taking her glass, she refilled it again, then tilted it carefully over his mouth. "Open," she said. When he did, she poured slowly, with him gulping down what he could, dribbling wine everywhere in his haste. His stomach clenched and rebelled, but he somehow managed to master it, soon draining the glass entirely.

She took her time, allowing him to eat the remainder of the meal, feeding him with what could be mistaken for sympathy were there to be any semblance of feeling on her face. Her motions were measured and precise, and if seemingly gentle, it is only to prevent the waste of food and drink.

Somewhere in his mind, Mateo started to believe. Perhaps, just perhaps, that his torment might be at an end. A brief hope began to build as he ate, and drinks, the wine finally spreading through him with a familiar warmth. Maybe her anger was sated? She had let him go before ... he did his job well ... had an enormous list of contacts ... he could be of use to her yet.

Nathicana watched him, and noted the change in his eyes.

Excellent.

"Tell me, Janus," she began, "These EI's I've begun associating with. What are your thoughts on them?"

He blinked in spite of himself. Why is she asking ... she wants my opinion? Now? She's testing me ... she wouldn't care if she's not letting me go.

"They are not to be trusted," he managed, grimacing and gasping as the vehemence of his statement put strain on his already tortured form. "How can you know their purposes? They are machines, tools to be used, not allies. They care nothing for the human race, mark my words."

Oddly enough, she nodded. "You're right, you know ... at least, some of them aren't to be trusted. Have you any idea the things a good number of our people volunteered for out there with the space fleet? I'm not certain we can even call them human anymore. They've moved far beyond that." She detailed out the Angelan procedures for him, as she understood them at least, in all their horrific detail, sparing nothing. Mateo visibly paled, then took on a slightly green cast as the visions made his stomach jump and twist yet again.

"You let them do that to your own people?" he gasped. "How c--" He stopped himself, clenching his jaw and hoping he hadn't already said too much. "I misspoke myself." He nearly bit off that last statement, his eyes riveted on the ceiling.

"No ... no, you're right. It was a terribly cruel thing I'm certain. And though they were volunteers, and understood ..." she trailed off, reaching for a napkin and dabbing at her lips daintily. "At the time it seemed the proper route to take, granting the Dominion in the end, a group of highly effective ‘supersoldiers’ so to speak, for our more specialized tasks. I take it that the inherent power of such forms would not appeal to you, then?"

"Gods no," he said between clenched teeth, having no loose point on his body to shiver with.

She was quiet for a moment, which grabbed his attention. Is she ... going to let me go?

"I want you to know something, Janus," she began, reaching back to take a shiny scalpel from the tray, slowly twirling with her fingertips as she continued. "You were right about another thing. The rumors of my, ah ... enhancements? All true. You see? All your hard work wasn't for naught."

Nathi rubbed her right hand over the back of her left, and up past her wrist, flexing and watching the play of her muscles beneath the skin. "You know, I was awake for all but the last part of the procedure." She went on, detailing what she recalled of her operation (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=275154), and at the same time, reaching back for the bottle of alcohol, washing her forearm with it. She then lay her arm up over his chest, palm up, and drew the scalpel lightly down in a four inch long cut. Her eyes tightened slightly, but she showed no other emotion as she continued to explain about myomer muscle replacements, and annelid-based nodes, and bone-lacing and enhanced reflexes. Forcing herself not to flinch, she made a second cut across the top of the first, creating a 'T' of it. She reached out with her foot to drag over the box of cotton and clean rags, using them to dampen the flow of blood a bit, massaging the area, then gently peeling back the skin to show him the smooth, bone-white myomer beneath, flexing and once more watching the play.

"Amazing, isn't it?" she commented quietly, pressing the cloth to clear away more blood, and holding it up for him to see clearly. "And to think there are those out there for whom all this is nothing."

Mateo listened and watched in horror, unable to draw his eyes away from her cold, detached motions, save for brief glimpses at her equally cold expression.

Why? Why show me this now? How did she stand it? Gods, she's a monster ... she's as much or more machine that those bloody fiends she calls allies. Look at her ... no feeling. Not one whit.

Nathi blinks, seeming to come back from a reverie, and fetches a curved needle and suture thread from the tray. Methodically, she presses the skin back in place, and in neat, even intervals, stitches herself back up. It takes a good while, and in the meantime, she continues to speak with Mateo.

"Feeling better, Janus?" she asked in the same, cool manner she'd spoken in all day.

"Please ... no more, I beg. Forgive me, Lady," he began to stutter, still wincing in pain at his wracked position. "You know I can be of use to you ... I swear, I've learned. I was wrong." Now that he'd begun, his pride fallen away, his voice began to take on a desperate, pleading tone, bordering on hysterical.

"Mercy, I beg ... let me go. I'll serve you faithfully. Never stray again, I swear it." He continued to watch her with a mix of undisguised horror and pathetic hopefulness. She of course, seemed to ignore it completely.

"What assurances can you give me, Janus? I want to believe you ... oh, I do ... but you've shown me just what a treacherous little snake you can be."

He cast about for whatever argument might suffice, offering her information, contacts, and money. He launched into detailed lists of secret investments and holdings. He further condemned several Ministers whom he didn't realize had already been dealt with. She let him go on and on with it, nodding her head in response, admittedly filing away notes for later use, but seeming to concentrate completely on finishing the stitches in her arm.

"... And that's not all," he said breathlessly, eager to please. She held up her right hand, motioning for silence. She placed the needle and remaining thread on the tray, took a bottle with a dropper tip, and after cleaning the wound again carefully, sealed it with a quick-drying bioadhesive compound, blowing on it softly to help it set.

That done, Nathicana turned back to him, and for the first time, she smiled.

Mateo's heart nearly stopped.

Taking the tray away, she put it aside. "I think," she said thoughtfully, setting the small bottle back on the table, and instead retrieving another bottle and a large hypodermic. "I think that I will do you an honor, Janus."

She stood, filling the syringe from the bottle, tapping it with a carefully manicured nail to get the bubbles to all go to the top, then pressed the plunger to clear the line. She leaned over the prone man, and began making carefully calculated injections, causing him to shriek and curse yet again. He paled further as he realized the injections were numbing him, slowly leaching the feeling from his torso.

"What in hell are you doing to me?" he managed to shriek once his jaw unclenched enough to allow it.

"I've decided to let you share in my unique experience, my dear. I may not have the skill, the technology, or the knowledge of S.H.O.D.A.N., but ... I think I can at least give you an idea of these things and how they work, yes?" She took a rag, wet it down thoroughly with the ice water, and systematically scrubbed his chest and stomach completely clean, ignoring the ragged wails of protest her announcement elicited. She took up the alcohol and splashed it over the area for some impromptu sanitizing. Next, she brought the tray over closer within easy reach, and set to reorganizing the items on it, occasionally holding one or another up for perusal – and for him to get a better look at the ‘toys’ she had available.

The man was howling by then, his voice thick and rasping from his already raw throat. The curses and epithets he spewed from blood-flecked lips ran together in an unending litany. She alternatively hummed, then sang snatches of one of her favorite operas, Tosca by Puccini, completely ignoring his screams.

"Certa sono del perdon
Se tu guardi al mio dolor!
Dilla ancora la parola
...Che consola, dilla ancora!"

She delicately poked and prodded his chest, the muscles of it stretched taut over the rack. She took a fresh scalpel, probed with delicate fingers at a point at the base of the breastbone, and began making a long, slow incision down to his navel. She then made two more incisions angling out from the top, towards each shoulder, in a standard 'Y' pattern. Next, she drew another long cut running from each side, effectively underlining the 'Y', connecting all the incisions. Mateo could feel no more than a slight pressure, but he did see every move she made. And of course, responded accordingly with renewed useless straining and a fresh chorus of panicked shrieks.

Il tuo sangue o il mio amore volea.
Fur vani scongiuri e pianti.
Invan, pazza d'orror,
Alla Madonna mi volsi e ai Santi.

Nathicana dabbed at the incisions with a roll of cotton gauze in her left hand, holding the scalpel gingerly, then worked her other fingers in a massaging manner over his upper right chest. Carefully, she stripped back the skin, using the scalpel to free the tissue as she worked, revealing the slick, red musculature beneath. She repeated the process with each section, laying his chest and upper abdominals open inch by inch. Drawing out her knife, she took a butane lighter from the box, and heated the blade thoroughly. With care and precision, she cauterized the flayed skin, repeating the process ‘til she was satisfied enough with the results, then dabbed the area with fresh gauze to clean it again.

L'empio mostro dicea:
Già nei cieli
Il patibol le braccia leva!
...Rullavano i tamburi...
Rideva, l'empio mostro, rideva ...

She took her time carefully scraping away the large pectoralus major muscle from the left side of his sternum where it was anchored. With a bemused look, she began to strip it down, peeling layers back from the nerve endings where she managed to find them, always sure to provide him a clear view. She lay the red mass back over his shoulder, and went to work on the next layer of musculature. By this time, Mateo was frothing at the mouth, the numbness unable to hide her unpracticed fumblings with his nerves entirely. With the same slow precision, she loosened the pectoralis minor from its hold on the third, fourth and fifth ribs, laying it back in the same manner as the first. Taking up a set of rib shears, turning them slowly for his perusal, she then began at the bottom of his ribcage, clipping first at the eighth rib, just before the serratus anterior muscles began. She repeated the process with each rib, clipping as well the end connecting to the sternum, then removing each piece, and setting them in a neat pile on the tray in his full view.

"Già la sua preda pronto a ghermir!
"Sei mia?"-"Sì."
Alla sua brama mi promisi.
Lì presso, luccicava una lama...
Ei scrisse il foglio liberator,
Venne all'orrenda amplesso...
Io quella lama gli piantai nel cor."

His shrieks had reached a level of ongoing ragged whistling fits, wracked with gasping and coughing that caused his remaining musculature to writhe and twitch. She cut through the smooth layers of the intercostalis externus that enclosed the body cavity, and peeled them back to reveal his inner organs, including his rapidly beating heart.

"I had thought, perhaps, to make my own additions here," she said, pausing in her quiet humming and sporadic singing, as an odd, almost confused expression dawned on her face. "But you know, Janus ... having come so far with this, I find myself tiring of the game."

She looked down at her blood-soaked arms and hands, the stains on her clothing, the slowly widening pools of blood on the floor, then back to his ruined chest. Cocking her head to the side, she said softly, "How ... unexpected." His responses were inarticulate, and weakening with each passing moment. She pushed her hands down into his chest, near to his heart, on either side of it. By now the feeling was coming back quickly, and he attempted to writhe and shriek anew at the horrifying sensations, his eyes starting to roll back in his head from the shock and trauma.

Nathi murmured softly to herself as she watched him impassively, falling back on her remembrance of Shakespearean tragedies.

"What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason ... How infinite in faculty. In form, in moving, how express and admirable ... in action, how like an angel, in apprehension, how like a god. The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals ... And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me."

Shaking her head, she carefully wrapped her hands around his still beating heart, feeling the pulse of his life fluttering there fragilely.

"Good bye, Janus. I'll see you in Hell."

She compressed her hands together in a quick, fluid motion, her augmented strength crushing and mangling with ease in a spray of blood. His body stiffened, a final horrified shriek piercing the air, and slowly the last signs of life ebbed away with the flowing blood. Mechanically, she leaned down, taking several of the clean cloths from the box, and rigidly wiped down her arms, her hands, her face. One by one, she dirtied them and let them fall to the floor, her eyes still riveted on Mateo, repeating the process ‘til there were no more clean cloths to use. Nathicana stepped back, stumbling once against the stool she'd sat on, sending it rolling away with a clatter. The noise of it in the unsettling silence after all the horrendous screaming gave her a start, sending rippling chills running along her spine, leaving her feeling as though her stomach had dropped to her boots.

Swiftly, she turned, walking out of the small cell with a purpose, needing to be out of the room and the still, ruined body laid out on the rack. Down the hall, and out through the thick door she strode, into the darkness of night, feeling far less confident than she had when first she had crossed into the shadowed Prigione. She increased the pace along the span of the covered bridge, the familiar pleasant voices of nearby gondoliers and their fares doing nothing to comfort her. Through the long hall she went, paying no attention to the few people still present, nor their wild-eyed looks at her horrific bloodstained appearance. To the end of the hall, to her office which lay at the end of it, the raven-haired woman stalked, her pace quickening as she went as if she could outrun the images building in her mind. She closed and locked the door behind her, and went straight to the little wine cabinet behind her desk. Grabbing the first bottle off the shelves without a care, she took it, opened it and drank down several long, steady swallows, numbly shrinking back into the large leather chair behind her desk.

And for a long time, she sat staring with unseeing eyes out into the blackness, heedless of anything but the bottle, and her increasingly dark thoughts.

http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=347815

thread about a rogue ballistic missile submarine

OOC
this takes place in an RP that i participated in, with a player based in North korea (dra-pol) and some other nations.

Also incomplete
******

Outside Seoul
Korean War Zone
Two days after the Dra-poel (north korean) invasion

Specialist Mandy Li dangled her legs out the open door of the Ka-60M helicopter as it quickly crossed the battered and bruised landscape of the Korean peninsula. Scarred from the rapid Dra-poel armored offensive and further damaged by the allied counter-offensive, there was not much left of the forest that had previously been located there.

Five Ka-60M helicopters, modifications of the Russian Ka-60, flew in formation. To the west, a trio of American UH60 Blackhawks flew low and fast, matching their counterparts' speed. The two units, however, stared at each other warily; not too long ago, the Americans had supported a rogue Islandian government which had later succeeded in gaining its independence from East Islandia.

The Islandians had not forgiven them for that since.

Mandy shook her head and pulled her legs back into the helicopter, brushing up against the back of Specialist James Guang, who merely grinned at her and winked. Mandy smiled back at him, a rare gesture and one she reserved mainly for James, whom she loved dearly (even if she would never admit it).

James tapped his ear with a finger, signaling for Mandy to check her communications gear. She quickly pulled her earpiece into place, and flipped a thumbs up.

"Can you hear me?" James asked on a private channel. No one else around them could hear over the noise of the helicopter.

"Yes," Mandy said. "What do you want to say?"

"Be careful," he said.

Mandy looked to her left and right, noticing that no one else seemed to be paying attention to them. She quickly bent over to James' cheek, and gave him a quick kiss.

"You too," she whispered in his ear, so he could hear him. "Come back to me."

He nodded. "I will."

The helicopter hovered over the barren plain, and the NCOs began to shout for everyone to get off. Mandy quickly slid off and looked back at James, who waved.

The Ka-60Ms lifted into the darkness and sped away.

*******
Five hours later

"The American says he has sighted the Dra-poel on his optics," Mandy reported to her unit commander, a Dragon Lieutenant.

Dragon Lieutenant Shuang's eyes narrowed. "Their night vision optics have less range than ours," he hissed. "HOw can that be possible?"

Mandy shrugged. "Shall we call in some reconnaissance drones?"

Shuang shook his head. "Not yet," he replied. "Sat-int shows nothign for this region yet, and besides, there are two large minefields just north of here. If the NKAs come, we'll have plenty of warning."

Mandy frowned. "As you say," she replied, and returned to her post.

Az Hegedü by Matthew Perales

Katalin Hegedus and Fodor Eszes drew hop-scotch outlines on the pavement with stones. They took turns weaving one-footed number patterns in their design. All they had during the summers were each other and 1944 was no exception. This Hungarian neighborhood in Pittsburgh was particularly small. Katalin and Fodor were the only children going into the 9th grade, and most of the others were younger.

"I'm bored, Fodor," said Katalin, "Let's find something to do."

"OK, Katalin. Let's play hide-and-seek. You hide, and I'll count to 100."

"OK, but don't look like you did the last time we played." With this, Fodor began counting into his sleeve and the trunk of an elm near the street. Katalin ran inside her house searching for the best hiding spot. She opened the closet door and filed between the coats to the back of the nook. Unsatisfied with her placement, she came out and ran up the stairs. She ran toward her parents' room but stopped when a panel caught her eye.

She nudged the panel free and climbed in, replacing it loosely behind her. She had never been inside this crawlspace before. Her parents had simply not mentioned it, and that kept her curiosity from festering. A small circular window was located on the back wall, and a dust-filled beam showed the way. She walked carefully from rafter to rafter, sure that weight between would bring her to a new hiding spot. The room was in the shape of a triangle because the pitch of the roof didn't lend itself to practical use in a regular room. In the back of the crawlspace planks had been placed to span the rafters so it could be used as a makeshift storage room. Most of the boxes she found contained clothing from the old country. Clothing her parents tried to hide from the rest of the world, now having lived in America for 25 years. The best way to be an American was to look and act like one. She opened several of the boxes, perhaps expecting some mysterious or exquisite treasure. She was disappointed several times, too. She heard Fodor coming up the stairs, talking to himself.

"I know you're in here, Katalin. Are you here?" She wasn't under the bed. "No, that isn't like you. Are you here?" She wasn't in the clothing hamper, either.

She continued to go through the boxed-up-past and came across a small black rectangular case. There were several tears in the material and the latches and hinges were tarnished brass. She ran her hand across the top of the case and revealed a name.

"Who or What is a J. Szigeti?" Fodor came once again to the hall where Katalin had discovered the panel. This time when he passed, the panel fell off. Katalin put away the case and ducked behind a stack of boxes. Fodor poked his head in.

"Katalin, if you're in here, come out. You know how much I don't like small, dark places, and how I'm allergic to dust." His nose twitched in anticipation.

"Oh, all right, Fodor. You caught me, but look at what I have found! This room is wonderful. I wonder why Mother and Father have kept it from me," Katalin said.

"Well, I don't know, but it is your turn to count and find me now," Fodor reminded her.

"No, Fodor. I'm tired of this game. It is almost dinner time and mother will be angry if I'm not washed when she calls. We can play again tomorrow, if you want."

"OK, Katalin. I won't forget." Fodor

"Katalin, it is time for dinner, where are you?" Katalin's mother, Anna, shouted up the stairs.

"Coming, Mama," Katalin said. She crossed the hall into the bathroom and washed as quickly as she could. She finished up and went downstairs, passing pictures hung on the wall of relatives she didn't know on the way down. She had passed these pictures hundreds if not thousands of times before, but for some reason a picture of her grandmother, Katherina, had caught her eye. It wasn't anything to do with her grandmother, but rather her grandfather, Peter, in the background. He had something in his hands that grabbed her attention, but she couldn't quite make out what it was.

"Katalin, come to the table, now," Anna Hegedus shouted. Katalin's father, Itzvan, had already taken his place at the head of the table.

"Yes, Mama," Katalin said and took her spot between the two, across from her Grandmother who lived with them.

"Katalin, I expect you to help out around the house while you're off from school. Playing around all day will not teach you how to be a woman," Anna said.

"Yes, Katalin. Help your mother with the housekeeping. There is nothing more useless than playing games and being foolish. You're nearly a woman now, so I expect you'll act like one," Itzvan said.

"Yes, mama. Yes, papa," she said, pushing her peas around on her plate. "May I be excused from the table, please?"

"You haven't finished your peas. Finish your peas and then you may go," her mother said. Katalin was always being told how to act, and what she should or should not be doing. She wanted to ask about the crawlspace she had found, but thought it better to avoid that subject while her parents were lecturing her on foolishness. She forked the last of her peas and ate them with a deliberate swallow. She pushed her chair away from the table and walked back up the stairs toward her room. She stopped again at the panel in the hallway. She had to find out what a Szigeti was.

Prying open the panel once again, she entered the dust filled enclosure. She tip-toed the rafters once again until she made it to the flooring, breathing a sigh of relief that she had made it to safety. She walked around the front stack of boxes and found the case, once again. She picked it up and set it on her lap. The case had many creases in it, marks that showed its age. This case had signs that it had a lot of stories to tell, and the thought of what was inside was nearly as exciting as finding the hidden cove in her house had been hours earlier. Dust covered most of the lid so she brushed her hand across it and created a cloud barely visible in the fading light of Monday. She turned the case around so the latches were facing her. She tried the left one. It was rusted shut and took both of her hands to pry the age off of it. Her thumb turned red. She stuck it in her mouth and sucked on it, pulling it out to examine it. Ouch, she thought. This had better be worth the effort. She put both hands on the right latch and gave a mighty effort. This latch had been less affected by time and came open much more easily. She once again hurt her hand, this time from too much effort. After all this effort, she was about to find out what her imagination had left her desiring to know. Was it gold? Could it be treasure of some sort? Maybe a map to an island her family owned? She slowly raised the cover, squinting now in the remains of light shed through the window at dusk. Turning the case toward the window, she tried to catch a glimpse of what it was inside. A glare caught the finish on the piece of wood in the case, and she saw it for the first time. She saw the violin.

"I don't believe this," Katalin said. "Father and mother would consider this foolishness. Why do they have it in their house?" She put her hands to the strings and pulled on them one by one, bottom to top. It was the worst noise she had ever heard. "I see this is more like something they would own, now." She lifted the violin from its case and ran her hands over it. It wasn't much good to examine it now because there was no light left. She had not planned on staying so late, and decided it would be best to leave. She put the violin back in its case and latched it. She took the case in one hand while feeling her way along the wall with the other. She carefully plotted each step and made it back to the opening. She pushed her way out, violin first, and replaced the panel.

She came to the stairway and poked her head around the corner, keeping the violin behind her. When she saw the way was clear, she quickly walked to her room. She shut the door behind her, and placed the violin on her bed. She lit the candle on her nightstand and once again lifted the latches of the case. She raised the top and removed the violin, this time able to see its features. She saw some rosin dust on the violin underneath the strings, and worn spots on the black fingerboard and strings where someone had played notes. Looking through the funnily shaped holes in the top, she noticed that J. Szigeti had signed the inside of the violin. 1835 was inscribed under Szigeti. She turned the violin around, examining its bottom. Horizontal stripes of lighter and darker shades of brown alternated. On the neck of the instrument, there was another spot worn where some master had held the instrument. She had never seen a more beautiful object in her 14 years of life. She became angry at her parents for never having told her about this wonderful instrument before.

She put the violin back in its case and removed the bow. She held it between her pointer fingers and examined it carefully. She saw that it was made of wood and the strings were off-white. She had no idea how to play a violin, and so for tonight she would replace the contents back into the case and hide it under her bed. Tomorrow she would ask her parents for lessons on how to play. She changed into her nightgown and sandwiched herself between the blankets on her bed. She had a hard time sleeping that night, thinking about the wonderful sounds she would soon be making on her violin.

The next morning she took her place at the breakfast table. Her mother had made her oatmeal, like always, and, like always, Katalin choked it down. Now would be the best time to ask.

"Mother," Katalin began, "do you think, maybe, I could, after chores, take some, you see, I was in a crawlspace, and."

"You were what? Why did you go in there?"

"Mama, I found a violin," Katalin said.

"Katalin, that is not to be touched and no one in our family will ever play the violin again."

"Mama, I want lessons in my spare time."

"No, Katalin, we can not afford them. We are sending all of our extra money to the old country to bring what relatives we have left here," Anna said. "I will hear no more about it."

"Fine, I'm going to my room." She ran up the stairs.

******

Later that day Katherina, Katalin's grandmother, knocked on Katalin's door. Katalin inquired who it was and hearing it was her grandmother, she opened the door and let her in. Forgetting that she had been looking at the violin all day and had left it on her bed, she turned red when her grandmother picked it up out of its case. Katalin had always been closest to her grandmother. Katherina had always spoiled her only granddaughter and Katalin didn't mind it.

"Grandmama, mother and father just don't understand. How can they always be so serious? Don't they want to have fun?"

"These are serious times, my child. The world is troubled and people have forgotten how to be children," Katherina said. "I'm going to tell you a story, Katalin. It's a story about your grandfather. Your grandfather told me this story when we met. In his town, Szeged, he met his best friend, Joseph. Joseph and your grandpapa went everywhere together and did everything together. Wherever you found one, you found the other. Joseph and Peter, Peter and Joseph. In the old country everyone learned to play an instrument, and grandpapa and Joseph learned the violin. These two challenged each other, and through this rivalry they became the two best violinists Szeged had ever seen. In 1900, they were known throughout Hungary and played the best duets heard in Europe. That is when I found them. I fell in love with Peter and we were soon married. In 1904 we had our only child, Iztvan, your father."

"In 1914, Peter and Joseph went off to war, and were right at the front of the line, since Szeged is so close to the Hungarian-Serbian border. They looked out for each other and promised that when they got back to Hungary they would start a violin shop. Joseph had been studying for the last few years in the art of violin making. When they returned in 1917, Peter told Joseph that as soon as he had the money he would be moving his family to America, the land of opportunity. Business was good in the years following the war, and they sold violins as quickly as they could make them. Finally, in 1919, Peter told Joseph that he had enough money for the move, and that he would be leaving in a month. Peter asked Joseph to come with him to America to start their business in Pittsburgh. Joseph said he still had business to do in Hungary so he would stay behind, even if he had to change the sign on the shop from Szigeti & Katzmonovi to just Sziget. Peter decided then to change our last name from Katzmonovi to Hegedus, which is Hungarian for fiddle player. On the day that we were to leave for America, Joseph came to the house with a package in his hand. He gave it to Peter and told him to take care of it, and to teach his son, and his son's children to play it with pride. Maybe it was fate that you found that violin, Katalin, but I think your grandpapa knows it is time for you to come into your birthright."

"Grandmama, I'm so confused. Why, against grandpapa's wishes, would father keep this from me?"

"I don't know, child, but your father knows that eventually you will learn to play the violin, with or without him."

"Grandmama, do you think I should ask father to teach me?" Katalin asked.

"Yes, dear. Your father knows it is time, and he can't argue with you forever," Katherina said.

Katalin hugged her grandmother and went to her father's study. The study was mostly wooden and contained many books, some in English, and others not. He was at his desk reading when he peered over the top of the rims of his reading glasses at his daughter.

"Yes, Katalin?"

"Papa, I know mama said no earlier today, but grandmama told me the story of grandpapa and how he taught you and wanted you to teach me. Can you teach me in the evenings? Please, papa?"

"Katalin, I don't know. Your mother said no, and besides, there are many more useful things you need to learn," Iztvan said.

"I will learn papa, but please teach me?"

"I will talk it over with your mother, but why don't you bring me the violin now?"

"Ok, Father." She raced upstairs to retrieve the violin from her bed. When she returned her father's face brightened at the sight of the dingy, dented case.

Iztvan opened the latches and removed the violin from its case. He held it in his hands and examined it. He plucked the strings and, making a sour face, began to tune each string in turn, from memory, as though it had been done hundreds of times before. Katalin sat at the edge of her chair expectedly. Her father set it on the desk and removed the bow. He took the bow in his right hand and tightened the knob at the end, drawing the hair taught. He removed a piece of rosin from one of the compartments and put it to the bow, drawing it along the hair several times. A cloud of dust rose from the motion, and he put the block of rosin back in its compartment. He took the violin in his left hand and placed it under his chin. He closed his eyes and drew the bow to the strings. One spectacular chord was all it took for Katalin to know this was what she wanted. He continued on playing some song, later to be known to Katalin as a Dvorjak concerto. He finished and Katalin clapped. Katalin asked her father to play more, and he began what she would later know as Hungarian Dance, No. 5. These pieces would become Katalin's favorite when she better learned the instrument. Half-way through the song, Katalin turned to look at the door. Her mother was standing in the doorway, in tears. Katalin didn't know why her mother was crying, but she knew for the first time in her life she was truly happy. Katalin danced in that study, and didn't care how childish or foolish it might be.



Feedback greatly appreciated.

This story was posted on the old server, before it retired to grow garden gnomes or whatever it is servers do. It recounts the final moments of Lord Bryce, who was the first Governor of Chimaea (in NS anyway). His daughter, Lady Tanya Bryce, is the current Governor.

The Long Goodbye


It’s very cold out here. The chilly wind, while not very high, always carries a frostiness that goes right through my body. Somehow the darkness tends to accentuate the cold; it’s a very cloying, suffocating darkness that presses tightly to everything.

The trees this high in the mountains are skeletal, looming up suddenly out of the mists that seeped through all shape and form, low on the ground. Looking up I could see so many stars; it was like the entire sky was a black, velvety cloth with a bright light behind it. A velvet full of holes.

Velvet. That brings back the memories, sharp and painful.




“More wine, my Lord?”

Lord Bryce, Governor of Chimaea, looked up sharply at the immaculately dressed butler, then nodded and handed him his empty crystal tumbler. He didn’t usually drink. He was of the opinion that alcohol was the kind of thing that happened to other people. He preferred looking at wine instead; he liked to swirl it around his glass and stare into its burgundy depths, reflecting the light overhead. It helped formulate and direct his thoughts. Almost a form of meditation; the simple act made everything else fall into place.

Not today though. No, not today.

The butler had refilled his tumbler and retired, leaving him with the bottle, still half full. Half full. How much had he drunk?

It was always this painful. It never ever stopped. Each passing day he thought the pain would soften… but it never did. How many years now? Six… Six years and every time the day came around it was worse than death.

Worse than death…




It was almost an accident really. He’d been trying to access a database on a computer in his office in the New Sydney Parliament House. His frustration with computers was legendary in his circle of friends and the staff that worked with him. His secretary was forever having to explain patiently how his email programs worked and how to operate mystifying things such as word processors. He had always maintained that he was a politician, not a technician, it wasn’t in his job description to play silly buggers with his computer.

That night, however, his secretary had called in sick. As he fought with the computer and cursed loudly, a pair of hands had appeared from behind and smoothly tapped a few keys, managing to achieve in a few seconds what he’d been trying to do for half an hour.

She’d been passing by on her way out of the building; his rather small office was open as usual and she’d heard his denouncement of the computer’s ancestry. He recognised her as an independent regional member. Mayrelle Lyons, MP.

They were married four months later on a Winter so cold that the world was coated in ice and snow. He remembered the sky being so blue that it was almost blinding; underfoot the pure white snow crunched and left their footsteps as they walked hand-in-hand up to the priest. He wasn’t very religious but Mayrelle was and had insisted on a priest. The wedding was conducted outdoors, in the large gardens of his family home.

The chairs had to be fixed to the ground to stop them from slipping in the snow, and both his shoes and Mayrelle’s shoes were supposed to be spiked on the bottom. Mayrelle had laughed at that and decided, two hours from the time, to cover the “aisle” with a long expanse of synthetic velvet.

It was an odd scene. Sky blue, snow white, coat black, flower red. He remembered the contrast. And Mayrelle’s face under the veil, cheeks red from the cold, her beautiful blue-grey eyes shining. Lord Bryce, decked out in a tailored suit with a bright red rose on his lapel. Lord Bryce and Lady Lyons, married in velvet.




His smile faded into a bitter twist of the mouth and he poured himself more wine. What was this vintage? He stared at the label on the dark green bottle blankly for a while then realised that it was a ’78 Chimaean Glade. Very expensive. He’d bought that on their honeymoon, it’d cost him quite a bit. Just for a special occasion.

A special occasion. And this was it.




The pregnancy had gone well. They were both excited by it, constantly talking, discussing. Should they resign from politics? Should they move somewhere else? Was it a boy or a girl?

She was beautiful. She seemed to glow as her belly filled with the new life they’d created. She was so beautiful it was almost painful; she looked like an angel. He’d taken an extended holiday and lost sleep through most of it making sure she was ok.

The expectation was a mix of nervousness and bliss. Each day passed, a blur of small activity as they both waited for the moment when the rushing would begin. His chauffer seemed to never sleep either. He didn’t see any media coverage but he knew that speculations would be rife throughout Chimaea. The new Governor’s wife was expecting… People seemed to be happy about it. Every day, the Prime Minister and his friend General Garrison called up. They seemed as anxious about it as he was.

The day came at last. It was an immense rush as they stuffed everything into the Mercedes and his chauffer took off at the kind of speed only a well trained driver could manage. The screeching stop as the car reached the hospital was the main thing he remembered from the entire journey; that and the interesting pale colour his body guard had after clinging onto his seat for dear life.

There were hospital staff waiting in the car park with a reclining wheel chair. Mayrelle had been rapidly strapped into it and wheeled through the hospital doors, followed by Lord Bryce and his bodyguard.




He realised he had broken out into a cold sweat as the old events replayed in his mind. He forced himself to relax his fingers on the arm of the chair and shakily gulped down more wine. The bottle was nearly finished now. No matter.

His wondering eyes strayed to the large ornamental clock affixed to the wall of his study. Thirty minutes past ten. It was dark outside, he could hear the wind whistling softly through the French windows.

The overhead light, encased in its golden globe, shone down upon him like an angry sun. A moth banged against it uselessly, singing its wings on the hot glass. The clock ticked away, every tick resounding in the quiet room.

Lord Bryce leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, remembering…




The birth was going well. Contractions has started in force and his wife was gritting her teeth and glaring at him while clinging onto his hand for life. Later he realised that her fingernails had pierced the skin and drawn blood.

The two doctors and the three nurses were the best that the hospital had. Highly trained and immensely qualified they monitored her progress, doing what they could to ease her into birth. Lord Bryce imagined their child coming towards the light of a world he helped to run. It was a strangely comforting thought.

Then things started to go wrong.

The first he noticed was that her grip on his hand suddenly relaxed. He stared dumbly at her face and a split second later the alarms started to blare in his ears. Another two nurses entered the operating theatre and one of them grabbed him painfully by the arm and shoved him unceremoniously toward the door. He stumbled and would have fallen if not for his bodyguard’s helping hands. He turned back to the scene but another nurse blocked his way.

“My wife!” he gasped, “That’s my—”

“Sir, please leave the room now.”

His bodyguard immediately put an arm around his shoulders and almost dragged him away.

But not soon enough that he didn’t hear the scream that would haunt him for the rest of his life.




Tears stained Lord Bryce’s face as he stared into space, his eyes now wide open. The crystal tumbler slipped out of his hand and smashed to pieces on the footrest by the side of his chair. The sound snapped him out of his nightmarish reverie and back to the present.

The old house was silent. Not even a creak. It had been built well by his ancestors. In the gallery upstairs the portraits of those ancestors stretched from wall to wall, staring down at him through the dust of centuries.

Parliament would convene soon. More long nights trying to bring justice into the world, he thought bitterly. And always the same old problems, haunting him wherever he went.

The same old ghosts. Rising from the dead.

He looked down at the remains of his tumbler and sighed, for once able to ignore the mess. He’d always been a stickler for cleanliness. Tonight, however, he couldn’t care less.

He stretched out his long fingers, picked up the pen from the low mahogany table in front of him, and resumed the letter he’d been writing. Three pages now. Nearly finished.

The scratching of the pen on paper filled the room.




The cold air stung my face as a gust of it passed under the trees. I turn to look back at the house and see it shining like a beacon against the crawl of time. A symbol of infinity.

In front of me the frozen lake stretched out on all sides like a crystallised ocean. By day I can just see the bank on the far end. I’m not sure whether its real or artificial, something built by human ingenuity or created by nature. In the end it doesn’t really matter.

This was where we had made love that first time, under the now snow-covered evergreen. That summer had been one of the most beautiful in my life. My memory has made the air like honey, the grass like soft carpets. I remember the gentle breeze wafted through her hair, her eyes aglow with joy.

Now the air is like sharp needles in my lungs. So cold and real.

My shaking hands unwrap the package in my pocket. Some of the long, golden capsules fall out of it but I don’t care. None of it matters anymore. The grip is still comfortable, fitting into my hand like a glove. I sit down carefully under the evergreen, the snow cold against my body, the trunk of the giant tree frozen hard against my back.

I look out into the frozen lake, lit eerily by the moon, wreathed in a soft mist. It’s beautiful. Like the cold, frozen beauty inside my heart.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the trunk, letting the sensations into my mind.

Then I open my eyes and whisper a final farewell to the wind and the stars.

The twiddle-can't
-----------------

Once upon a time, on a hill that was very big a man sat on a tree and thought about the things that he said and did in his life. And he realised that he was more of a than a and so he fell. Hard.

This is a piece of writing I did around a year go, in a difficult part of my life. It took me around two hours to do, and is mostly unedited and raw. It does have it's flaws, but I like it as a piece as it reflects something about me. So, here it is, and my story is called "Morbid Thunder" and if there are any suggestions for a better title, or any constructive criticism, I would be most appreciative of them. Thank you, and here is my piece of work, at 2,166 words, I hope you enjoy it.


Morbid Thunder


The thunder streaked outside, adding an eccentric chord to this deep haunting melody of nature, which beat against Alex’s window the dramatic drumming reverberating about the lonely house.

Another storm, Alex thought. How sublime.

He looked out in the shadowy realm which was the choked garden outside, which was currently sustaining the cold rain and shadows. He sighed as he stared outside, hearing the lighter, but with the same chilling drumming of those droplets of rain upon the cold and cloudy window. The sigh formed from his own fatigue, manifested into a small spectre of condensation which drifted into nothingness shortly. He looked at the ghost of carbon dioxide with the same morbid look which frightened people sometimes.

It certainly frightened her, and sparked this entire unique situation.

The clouds continued to rumble in their irritation at Alex, as if to cast judgement upon the thin teenager. Alex flopped down upon his bed again, a motion which he had done three times now since he had done it, his body still recovering somewhat from the intensity of the event. The adrenaline was still flowing like liquid lighting through him, making him powerful as a god in what he could achieve in his mind.

He looked at the ceiling, that plain white ceiling which bore no identity, long and hard as if to find some secret which no one had ever discovered. The white became illuminated by the dancing of electrons outside, and then returned to the plain old ceiling, the art of nature and chance was only fleeting, but Alex observed the erratic sweeps of nature’s paintbrush. He cocked his head in a eerie fashion, and resumed his thoughts about what to do.

Alex was a solitary person, one who preferred the company of none, to the company of many fools. He was not one who you would call a social type, a deep thinker, yes, but not one who would constantly be around friends, or have an interesting story to tell.

He preferred to be awake during the darker hours; he found them far more appealing to his depressive nature. He found some sort of grim amusement in musing others death during these times, which were in his wide repertoire of thoughts when he was alone. Although this night, he was not musing about such things. He had something far more wonderfully new and elating to deal with.

This teenager had done something dramatic, something which had flipped his narrow world completely upside down and made everything inverted, which made Alex’s eyes sting in the actual, exciting concept. Alex could barely come to terms which what he had just done, the thunder seeming to scream in his ears of his crime against those who could have helped him, or had posed to. The guilty and doubting side in Alex roared once more, pummelling him into submission mentally, while the calm cold exterior seemed to absorb the blows without complaint or acknowledgement.


What if someone finds out?
What will they say?
What will they do with me?


Alex silenced them swiftly, mentally rebuking himself with such thoughts. He no longer cared.

The thunder cracked again, as Alex’s eyes regained focus upon a new thought. His mind seemed to contemplate the infinite possibilities of a dead end street being completely opened up into a new world. The action which he had taken in utter rage had completely shattered and remoulded the nervous teenager mind which he had once had, and reformed it into something else, something else far sinister and adult. Those brown eyes focused into the matter at hand, and no thought of guild crept into his mind, which was wondering how much blood she was bleeding, and if he called an ambulance, would she still be alive.

No.

Don’t be stupid.

It happened an hour ago.

Alex visualised her cold, dead form which would be lying on the kitchen floor, her voice dead within her throat, and those empty eyes staring at him in an empty promise of punishment. Those eyes no longer scared him. When he did the deed, when he stared at her still dying form with satisfaction, he did not grin, but he found an immense release. He had become free from everything with that single thrust with that instrument of justice.

Life’s noise seemed turned down in volume, the previous barriers of restraint now gone. It seemed, as Alex reflected upon the deed, as thunder struck around the distressed house, that by taking a life, his own life had become infinitely free in its possibilities.

But…..what to do now.

Currently seventeen, with a storm raging outside, no-one else who would care or grow concerned of him mother’s demise, or his own presence in his friendless school, what was he to do?

His mind worked fast, but his body did not move off that bed, and his eyes still retained that same glassy gaze, and his lips held a smile of satisfaction, but not pleasure. As if he had accomplished his life’s work.

And then, with a crack of lighting screeching across the sky, Alexander jolted upwards, as if Frankenstein himself had pulled some lever to send the electricity through his creation, to bring animate it back to unlife.

He looked around, looking for items to which might be useful.

He found amongst the mess to which his small, dark and damp room, a few things which caught his quick and discerning eye which darted around, hunting.

A torch which he usually took with him when he went out at night.
His old school shoes, which were slightly too tight now.
A full bottle of Whisky, which had rolled from under his bed.

He looked at a small bottle which contained those damned dark green pills which he so despised. Been given them around two months ago for his depression and anger management problems, Alex scorned his mother for making him take them. Most of the time he did not take them, and simply threw the pills out of the window to satisfy his mother, when she looked around his room when he frequently went out during the night. She knew the exact count of the pills, and knew how many should be left.

Alex refused to take them, they made him feel absolutely nothing at all, no pleasure, no pain, no sorrow, no joy. He was a corpse of nothingness, capable of nothing at all, simply breathing and sleeping. That was no way to be.

He snatched then and burst out of his room, into the cold corridors of his home. The atmosphere could have suffocated in it’s distress. The sensation that something terrible had recently occurred would throb through the first people to discover this terrible event, in a few long days when someone passed by this remote area.

Not that Alex could feel this foreboding, in his intoxication of his new found freedom which ignored such petty things like guilt.

And all it had taken was one word to trigger this liberation from his previous, depressed and trapped form, Alex thought with a deep appreciation of what could have been. But it was hardly the thoughts someone guilty would have thought, like “What if I could have controlled myself?” or ,“What if it was not in the kitchen had the knives not been available?” perhaps the thought of the terrible storm which raged outside, “What if the storm had not been here, and I would have gone out…what then?”

No such thoughts even dared creep into Alex’s mind, in fear of being terribly punished for dampening this drug like high of victory. Such thoughts were for those feeling guilty. And Alex did not feel guilty in the slightest. No, he felt completely justified in every stroke of that knife.

Every stab into her chest, he felt retribution.
Every gash into her neck, he sensed that this was meant to be.
Every slash upon her wrists as she attempted to futile attempt to fight back.

He knew that she deserved everything.


Everything.


Alex walked out with purpose in his stride as he walked towards the kitchen. He paid no attention to his mother upon the floor. He paid no heed to her accusing eyes. He was not disgusted or horrified with the brutality of it all. Alex simply snatched the matches in a hurry to get his plan underway, to get the spark into a roaring flame.

He took them, and he walked away, his shoes creating small ripples across the ocean of crimson, a testament to the fatal nature of frustration. His black shoes now had a small coating of blood, which still, steadily, flowed from the countless wounds upon her pale and lifeless corpse.

Alex thought that it was absolutely astounding how much blood the human body could contain. It was funny really. When he stabbed her again and again, he did not really imagine that there would be so much blood which would flow out.

Then again, he never imagined that he could be capable of such things. He thought bemusedly, as he reached the door and grabbed his coat, that it was always the quiet ones which do something absolutely unique like this.

He put on his oversized coat around him, the dark blue coat which would attempt to ward against this onslaught of rain, made him appear like some sort of ghoul or zombie, the hood overhanging over his head, and his sleeves far too long. His face bore terrible new shadows across it, and his eyes seemed like eternal orbs of malice, which knew you every secret.

He put it on, and put the things which he collected into his many pockets. And then, came the Whisky which he had picked up. He stared at the bottle, the liquid contents eventually stopped to move about from his hurried movements. After long minutes, looking at it, considering the option, listening to the lighting and rain rage around him, he decided to do it.

As sudden as the lighting which simultaneously struck, he hurled the bottle of Whisky with all his might into the kitchen. The contents smashed against one of the kitchen surfaces, and mingled with the flood of blood. The glass shattered with a satisfying sound of destruction. Alex smiled as he drew a match with a vigorous flair, and lit it against the box.

He stared at the dancing flame, considering how something so small could cause such a chain reaction, and form into such a massive inferno. The question was….would this place burn the ground in such a storm?


Only one way to find out!


He tossed it into the kitchen with a cold grin, the glowing splinter of hell flying towards the sick equation of liquids, and then, that small flame which sat upon it’s small podium dancing, now became a behemoth of destruction, it’s fury manifesting gloriously, as the entire kitchen glowed.

Alex turned, his grin evolved into a more broad gleeful entity, the knife within his now blood stained pocket, and walked towards the door. He turned the doorknob and entered into the rain, which stormed down from the heavens. It was like something from a movie or a book which gets banned for giving youth ideas, Alex thought to himself wittily.

The youth of today needs ideas, and needed courage to perform them.

Like he did?

Yeah, like I just did.

The endless darkness was inviting to Alex, and he was about to walk away, when he had another thought which he took upon.

He turned his head slowly, and with that malicious smile upon his face, he said in his final farewell to the incinerating building to which held so much childhood anger, so much teenage angst and frustation and his last epic mark upon his own childhood history.

“Goodbye mother. Forever.”

And he walked away, into the night of infinite dark possibilities, exiting an individual without any restraint. Gone where the social restraints of etiquette and the crude voices of morality. Alex was free in all the ways that the people he saw every day were not. People dreamed of doing this, going out and doing something legendary. Alex had the image in his head, that he was a hero now, a hero of freewill and courage to do what he had just done.

An example to the spineless bastards who refused to fight back.

Dreams of grandeur were taking root within this young man, and as they grew and matured, this young man became an adult of true freewill, with no restraint from either his obligation to the law or his morals. Those who served law and morals wished to capture him in time, and trap him and reduce his freedom.

But Alex would always be free, when he was running through corn field under the sun, or in choking prison wards where people judged him for his actions, not his cause to which he lead.


Alex was eternally free, and the world hated him for it.




A story by David Giffard.

Ok, working on a story at the moment, so this is more like an introduction rather than a full story, would love comments though.

http://www.freewebs.com/l337_munkays_crap/worksinprogress.htm

It isn't set out all that well but I didn't have time to fiddle about with it after I copied from the word document. Anyway, enjoy.

Thank you. :sniper:

This story is shorteningly entitled 'hostile invasion,' and isn't exactly a story, as it lacks much in the way of character -anything- as it is a chain of events and an exercise in multiple viewpoints. Around 4500 words.
-----Hostile Invasion-----

Chella Stark was exhausted. She’d thought she was good, -known- she was good, that the advantage she had over her peers due to the cybernetic augmentation she bore would allow her to ‘breeze’ through RASP training…

She had never been more wrong in her life.

Even with all her augmentation, even with all her advantages, she wasn’t even able to finish out a training session in the Cavern. Admittedly, she outlasted most of her class, hell, she outlasted –all- of her class; save for him.

-He- was the last person she’d have expected to outlast her, because he looked even weaker and wispier than she did, like some sort of ghost. He was taller than she was, with the silver eyes of his Ascended blood, and the strangest hair she’d ever seen: silver with light-red highlights.

But god, he looked like he’d crack in half in a strong wind. Yet he was the only person in her class who was able to walk back to his bunk at the end of the day. It wasn’t fair, but it happened…

Worse, when the students had been required to introduce themselves and speak of their background and wishes and so forth…

“Hello, my name is Thomas Stark. My father is Kaelandar Stark, and my goal in life is to become a Bard. I play the harp and guitar, and I sing. I am here because my Uncle Sev asked me to come.”

Arrogant, yes, but it had proven true in the coming weeks that the boy with the silver-red hair had reason to be arrogant. She had hated him at first, hated him for upstaging her, hated him, though he was her cousin…

Then she had heard his music, late one night. She had heard many fine musicians before: Caspian Del’Riva’s flute, Fal-Tir’ath Neviros’ guitar…

But nothing had ever prepared her for the beauty of Thomas Stark’s harp. Then, he had begun to sing. His words sung softly to himself, and muffled further by the wall, and she could not make them out…but his voice penetrated. The harmonics, the sound, mingling with the beautiful melody drawn from the harp by long, lithe fingers…weaving a tapestry that near brought her to tears.

Hatred of an individual who could bring such beauty was impossible, at least in the case of one Chella Stark.

Yet, even that incapability couldn’t wipe out all negative feelings. She might not be able to hate the young bard, but she could still resent his physical abilities. Especially when they were obviously not his primary pursuit in life…

She felt that resentment strongly as she watched him effortlessly execute the flying acrobatics that were the norm within the Cavern. She had collapsed from fatigue thirty minutes ago, and as always, she would lay there until it was time for dinner, then sleep.

It didn’t matter to her that the rest of her class had collapsed before she had, and for possibly the thousandth time today she wondered how the hell he did it.

So she watched him, ignoring the resentment and jealousy that he provoked in her. She watched him, and she noticed things that she had not noticed before. She noticed that he never actually stopped, and she learned one of his tricks.

Thomas Stark conserved momentum. He never touched ground if he could afford not to, instead preferring to touch off of the sides of the obstacles and forth scattered around the Cavern, or even the walls of the Cavern itself.

She watched, and she saw the way he angled his body to reduce airflow, and as she studied him closer, she saw that his wispy fragile thin-ness was something of an illusion, a trick given off by the clothing he wore.

She saw that his muscles were hard, the kind of hard that she saw on her father, muscles gained from a lifetime of hard, hard work.

Suddenly, she was startled from her observation and pondering by a deafening thundercrack, louder still since she had had her hearing focused in on Thomas…

Thomas!

Her eyes snapped to where he had been, touching off one of the high-poles, he was in mid-arc when he jerked violently back about four feet off course, and fell, as a bird hit by a blast of birdshot. She saw his body hit the hard rock floor and bounce, contorting as it did so, and she saw the splash of red…and her heart caught.

She screamed.

She heard footsteps about her, and she heard the rapid discharges of Severian Stark’s twin pistols, and she realized that something was incredibly wrong.

She heard the shouted curses of Sev Stark, saw out of the corner of her eye, Jerrin Crane advancing in that unique crouch of his, pistol and knife in hand. He spun and double-tapped somebody in the forehead…

But the few RASP Operatives who were armed and responding were insufficient in number to react and also see to Thomas…so she lurched up onto one knee and took off in a low crouched-run. But when she arrived at the location she had –sworn- that he had fallen, he wasn’t there.

But a crusty red armored soldier who was –anything- but Revenian was, pointing some sort of rifle at her.

Well, the rifle had been, before a blurring knife sunk deep into the soldier’s back and jerked upwards and to the side, severing the spinal cord.
---
(Viewpoint: Thomas Stark)
---
Tom had been going through with his usual exercises when he heard the first shot, then felt a sharp pain in his side. The impact threw him full off course and he drifted downwards, almost impossibly slow.

He hit the ground hard, bounced, hit again…but on the second impact, he was responding, curled, rolled out of the worst of that impact, came up in a crouch. Hands went to his weapons, freeing his pistol and long fighting knife from holster and sheath respectively.

Admittedly, his APSP was loaded only with tranq darts, but the knife was fully effective, and took the grip of his APSP in his mouth for a moment as he removed a spool of slice-wire from a slot in his boot, notched one end into place, threaded the length of the single-edged monomolecular wire through the groove that ran around the cutting edge of his knife-blade, maneuvered the wire into the lock-point and snapped the spool free with a flick of the wrist.

He might not have his powerknife, but his Eldensteel fighting knife was almost as good…

He paused for a moment, exhaled, and the world sharpened. Thomas Stark had taken his leave…because Tom Stark might be a good enough fighter, but he didn’t have the reflexes needed for what Tom had automatically assumed was a real enemy invasion…

But the entity that Tom had been developing since before he even arrived at the Temple did. The entity Tom had named Spectre thrived in high-risk situations like this, and with fighting knife and pistol in hand, Spectre began to move.
---
He heard Chella’s scream, and long half-leaped strides taken at a low hunch took him into to an observation point, and information was gathered.

Enemy with assault rifle pointed at Chella, Enemy was facing almost directly away from Spectre’s position. His knife flicked about into a thrusting grip, and his pistol went into his teeth. He swung out of his position of cover and seemed to glide forward…

His right hand clamped down on the soldier’s shoulder as his left thrust forward. His now monomolecular-edged fighting knife sliced clean through the soldier’s armor, but the point of impact was slightly off center. Spectre pulled up and to the right, severing the spinal cord, then twisted the knife as he withdrew, simultaneous with a push from the right hand and a thrust forward from the knee.

The corpse fell face forward, Spectre removed his pistol from between his teeth and flicked the fighting knife about in his hands to remove the blood, the let it settle in a down-wards pointing grip. He looked down at Chella and kicked the soldier’s assault rifle away from her.

She looked at him questioningly, then nodded as she realized what he hadn’t had to think about: The good guys here were trained killers. It was entirely possible that some of them were associating the sound of the enemy assault rifle with the enemy itself. Thus, shooting with that particular weapon would probably have resulted in death from a perfectly accurate pistol shot…

Spectre slid a small pistol from his left boot and passed it to her. She knew the type of weapon from familiarization, but had never shot one. Nonetheless, she rested her thumb on the safety and let her index finger run parallel to the trigger-guard. Which was the universal sign for ‘Okay, I know what I’m doing. Let’s go kick some ass.’
---
(Viewpoint: Jerrin Crane.)
---
Jerrin Crane would have muttered about this being ‘utter bullshit and impossible,’ but Fatal Shade didn’t have time to think such deep philosophical thoughts. His focus was on the here and now, and right here and right now, his mission was to deal with the bastards in armor the color and texture of dried blood…

He spun about, a clanking footstep alerting him to the presence of a possible hostile. He caught a hint of dry-blood crimson, and his pistol rose to form a line that terminated in the forehead of the hostile. His index finger twitched twice, and two neat holes materialized, courtesy of a pair of osmium discarding sabot penetrator slugs

He came to ground behind a concrete obstacle and flicked up the Temple Push.

“Fatal Shade on push, request sitrep and preliminary analysis.”

The voice that came over his earbud was exactly who he figure’d it’d be, ‘Lisa,’ the Temple’s Directorate Liaison officer.

“Shade, Lisa responds. Preliminary statement indicates terrorist strike, probable ‘People’s Liberation Army’ links. Estimate of force is around company size. Armament is suit of SIBA equivalent plus e-mag 6mm assault rifle, 35 round magazine. No heavy weapons or high explosives.”

Shade nodded slowly, and then responded with “Fatal Shade off push.”

Company size would put the invading force between one hundred and two hundred hostiles. There were maybe ten full-trained RASP operatives currently within the Temple, plus Directorate security forces, but Shade couldn’t count on them being of any assistance.

He had to operate on the assumption that the enemy had already over-run the entirety of the Temple, save for the Cavern. Lisa would have already sent the distress signal, but he couldn’t count on reinforcements, either…and he only had two spare magazines for his APSP.

He peaked around the corner of the obstacle he was crouched behind, caught a glimpse of dry-blood crimson armor. His right hand flicked up –over- the obstacle and his APSP kicked twice. Range was sufficient that he couldn’t guarantee a headshot with off-hand shooting, which was what he was doing…

But two holes seemed to materialize in the torso plate of the terrorist, then the corpse began to fall. Good.

Shade darted away from behind the obstacle he had taken cover behind moments before somebody raked it with fire -- Shade was already rolling into cover behind a concrete climbing wall.

Even as he had been moving, his mind had taken the originator point of the assault rifle fire from his ears and marked it on his mental ‘map.’ He peeked out around the corner of the wall, saw a bit of crimson armor sticking up from behind a low obstacle, brought his pistol about to form a line terminating in that very bit of armor and fired once. The hostile fell fully behind cover, whether that was intentional on the part of the hostile, or due to the hostile’s transition from threat to corpse was beyond Shade’s control at this point.

He ducked back behind the climbing wall and exhaled...

---
(Viewpoint: Chella Stark)
---
Thomas was a machine. He seemed to possess the exact sort of combat instinct and reflexes that she had seen in Jerrin Crane’s demonstration the other day. That had surprised the hell out of her…she –knew- Jerrin Crane, he was one of her father’s closest friends.

He’d seemed nothing but a high-society dandy then, and when he’d come in to give a lecture, he’d seemed the same way…at first. Then he’d gotten that look in his eyes that Chella had seen in her father when he thought about military matters…

But Thomas wasn’t just surprising, he was –scaring- her. She had assumed that the ‘split personality’ thing would develop over time, not simply appear out of nowhere like that…but she knew what she was seeing in the boy she’d picked out on the first day of her training as being the least likely to make it through…

He had seemed so frail and innocent, especially with that lap harp of his slung over his shoulder…yet here he was, showing that not only did he possess more endurance than she did, but he was also a tad more skilled at actual killing…

She kept her pistol at the ready, covering Tom’s advance. He led with his pistol, knife in a downward pointing grip, kept close to the grip in a sort of modified ‘two-handed shooters grip,’ that merely included a knife. He didn’t seem quite comfortable with it, and she knew exactly why. The APSP he carried was loaded with tranquilizer darts, not solid shot ammo. Further, it was currently command locked to fire at subsonic speeds. That was just fine for target shooting and so forth, but it wouldn’t penetrate the full-body armor that the hostiles were wearing.

The weapon she held in her right hand was a dart-shooter, not even capable of shooting at higher velocities, but it –was- a weapon. She wished to god that she’d worn her weapons today, but she hadn’t thought she’d need them as the schedule indicated that the whole day would be spent doing ‘movement’ training in the Cavern.

Tom’s pistol bucked twice, but the darts bounced off his target’s armored neck-plate. He swore and made as if to charge, but Chella put a hand on his shoulder and shook her head. She motioned with her hands, a wide circle followed by a stabbing motion, then a tick-tock motion, followed by a finger pointing at herself, then a pantomimed shooting action with the dart-shooter in her left hand.

Tom nodded in understanding, and crept off away from her. She crouched behind the concrete obstacle they had taken cover behind, then took a deep breath, popped her head out, and began to shoot…
---
(Viewpoint: Thomas Stark)
---
Speed was of the essence. The gunshot wound in his side hurt like a stone bitch, cutting into his thoughts. Couldn’t deal with that now, have to bind it later. He could only set his teeth and run faster.

He reached the point he had decided would be his ‘touch-off point,’ made a mid-air direction change, then darted behind a support for a high-platform. The hostile was maybe three meters away, and Spectre took his APSP between his teeth, shifting his fighting knife to his right hand.

He darted forward, reaching the hostile slightly slower than he normally would have been able to, but normally he hadn’t been exercising most of the day and suffering from a gunshot wound…

His left hand clamped down on the chin of the hostile’s helmet and twisted ruthlessly to the side. Meanwhile, his right hand shot forward, propelled in a curved arc by his uncoiling muscles. Then he retracted his hand swiftly, his fighting knife’s monomolecular edge opened up the hostile’s throat in a fountain of red, red blood…

His hands shot back and he kicked forwards, sending the armored body clanging to the floor, then he jumped right over it and made a wide circle back to Chella’s position. Upon his arrival there he removed the APSP from his mouth and holstered it, then shook his knife free of blood. He set the handle between his teeth and went to examine the wound.
It had been a grazing shot to his left lower torso. There was a lot of blood but no actual critical damage. His moans of pain were muffled by the knife handle he had clamped securely between his teeth, and then he went to work…

He pulled off his shirt and tore it into one long, thin strip. Then he began wrap the wound. The pain didn’t lessen but the bleeding did, somewhat. He spat his knife out into his left hand and prepared to consider his next movement…when the world began to spin.
---
(Viewpoint: Chella Stark)
---
She had completely forgotten about Tom’s wound: the black shirt he wore concealed the blood almost too well. But when he pulled off his shirt, she her jaw dropped. But there was little she could do to help him, so she busied herself standing a sort of guard…

She heard Tom begin to move and looked over at him, prepared to do whatever was necessary...but not prepared for when he began to waver. She cursed herself for not realizing that he had spent almost two full hours more in intensive exercise than she had, plus he had been losing a lot of blood from that wound…

She moved forward, catching him as he began to fall. She held him close to her, protectively. There was little she could do...she possessed the full Devilrunner augmentations, but not all the systems were active. In truth, she began to suspect that most of them weren’t active. She knew that the offensive systems weren’t active, but she had a hunch that the physical augmentations were restrained to merely increasing her strength and so forth to the point where she moved as if the heavy implants didn’t exist.

She was quick and stealthy, but not nearly enough to match what she had seen Tom do. She knew that she would eventually get there…she probably wouldn’t ever match him without augmentations, but she would be damned if she didn’t come close…

Yet that was all in the future, right now she could do little but hold Tom and pray that nobody discovered her…
---
(Viewpoint: Dysaryn Stark)
---
Dysaryn Stark was not a nice person when woken two hours before he wanted to get up. The verbal abuse he had been prepared to bestow upon the offending individual was cut short by a single statement…

“My Lord, the Temple is under attack.”

Very few people actually saw Dysaryn act to the full of his capability. He had then. Up and out of bed, to the closet that contained his ‘fightin’ clothes.’ He pulled on the loose but muffled pants and tight shirt. Gunbelt went into place, combat harness went into place, then the CF-weave jacket with its gear. Heartsflame went over the shoulder, gloves went on the hands. Boots on the feet, and finally the pair of blacked shooter’s glasses…

He was applying camouflage paint even as he ran out the door…

It hadn’t taken long for him to arrive at the Temple complex. It was a series of independently rotating space stations orbiting around one of Northfell’s outer planets. There were a number of craft that he didn’t recognize, but who apparently recognized his ships…because they opened fire.

But Dysaryn’s scratch flotilla was more than capable of taking a little fire. The return volley was sufficient to quiet any opposition, but Dysaryn wasn’t aware of this, as the assault shuttles had launched at the –exact- moment he had specified.
---
One thing Dysaryn had never expected to be doing was a forced boarding of the Temple. He didn’t know how these hostile forces had gotten onboard, but there was going to be a hell of a witch-hunt after this was over.

The airlock opened, responding to the command override codes of the Warprince of Revenia. Dysaryn was first through, leading with his pistol. He identified and shot two individuals in full-body armor the color of dried blood.

As much as it annoyed the rest of his Blood Guard, Dysaryn was a superb point-man. He possessed not only the necessary instincts, but he had been honing his technique since long before most of his guard had been born.

Still, he wasn’t about to lead the primary clearing operation. That would have been –stupid.- No, he was haring off on a totally different and much more personal angle. His daughter was on this bloody station…and if even one single hair on her head had been hurt…he let the oath hang. No time to consider the sorts of things he would do to avenge her.

Dysaryn took a full squad of his Blood-Guard straight to the Cavern. He had queried the schedule, which he possessed as a result of his being the Warprince and all, noted Chella was supposed to be in the Cavern at the time of the attack, and made his decision.

Other units of his Blood Guard aided Jennifer Rodriguez’ Twilight Seraphim in fighting a vicious corridor-by-corridor purge of the Temple complex. The sort of fighting that favored power-armored and highly trained individuals, which fit both the Guard and the Seraphim to a T.

But Dysaryn would leave that to them, they could handle it as well or better than he could have. His business here was personal...

His pistol bucked once, flicked to the side, bucked again: two of the armored invaders dropped to the ground with holes in their vision slits. Dysaryn had already passed them by. This sort of movement combat relied almost entirely on reflex, if you reacted faster than the other guy then you’d probably survive. Dysaryn trusted himself to react first, before his enemy reacted. He also trusted his first reaction to be one that prevented his enemy from reacting at all.

That didn’t change the cold hard fact that what Dysaryn was doing was certain suicide. You couldn’t beat the statistics forever, it was only a matter of time before he didn’t notice something or somebody was just a bit more prepared…

But for the moment it was working, and right now momentum was the greatest weapon Dysaryn could possibly have. He shot another invader between the eyes, then leapt straight up, spinning as he did so. His pistol intersected a line that terminated in the chest plate of the dark crimson armored individual making as if to shoot him in the back for all of an instant, but that instant was sufficient to send forth a single deadly slug…

He turned back towards the Cavern and continued his advance.

The Cavern was hell. He saw motionless corpses in dried-blood armor sprawled everywhere, and occasionally a blur of black and brown or dark-gray and silver as Jerrin or Sev moved from cover to cover.

He also saw a girl with brown hair holding a frail boy that had the most interesting hair. It was silver, but with a faint red highlight in certain areas; very strange.

Regardless, a few hand signals sent the ten Blood Guard following him fanning out to clear the Cavern…Dysaryn went straight for Chella, noting as he did that the boy in her arms was Tom, Kael’s son. Dysaryn’s nephew, Chella’s cousin.

He saw the even in the boy’s apparently unconscious state, he kept a grip on his knife, and a fine knife at that, practically identical to the knife in Dysaryn’s left hand, except Tom’s knife had the distinctive glitter to the edge that indicated he had fitted it with slice-wire.

Dysaryn sheathed his knife and pistol and began to move. He slid in behind the obstacle the pair had chosen as cover and his hands were already moving, catching Tom’s knife-hand and twisting the dart-shooter out of Chella’s hand. He moved closer so that they could see his face…

Then couldn’t move as Chella leapt on him.
---
(Viewpoint: Chella Stark)
---
She heard the movement before she saw it…in fact, she never saw it. She just reacted at the same time Tom did, her dart-pistol rising, finger finding the trigger…then the pistol was torn from her hands and a black-gloved hand clamped down on Tom’s wrist so hard he dropped his knife. It inverted and sunk hilt-deep into the cavern’s rock floor.

Then she looked…and recognized her father. Tom was forgotten in that moment and she slid out from under him, throwing her arms around her father, pressing her face into his powerful chest…and all the pent up emotion came out. Because she was safe now…

Thank the Pancreator it was over. It was finally, finally over.
---
(Viewpoint: Owen Stark)
---
Owen exhaled flicked his bolt rifle to safe. The last clearing squad had reported a clear sector. They had taken prisoners when they could, but from the two hundred fifty recorded enemy contacts, only ten had survived. The casualties in staff had been bad: sixty percent of the Temple’s support staff were casualties, a quarter of the casualties were dead.

By way of combat personnel, the Directorate security team had taken one hundred percent casualties but not a single RASP Operator had been injured. Out of the students, five of the twenty were injured, not a single one was killed. There had been ten students in the Cavern and ten in their rooms, those in the rooms had been saved by the five-cm iridium blast doors that locked into place upon triggering of the invasion alert.

The invasion action was considered to be amazing proof of the success of the RASP program, where five RASP Operators and ten students had kept the Cavern contested for two hours and accounted for a full sixty enemy dead.

Once the reinforcements arrived, Owen and Sister-Colonel Rodriguez had combined their forces, one squad of Blood Guard and one Company of Twilight Seraphim to each of the Temple’s ten independent stations. It had been thirty minutes after the last assault shuttle released their troops to the point that the last invader had been declared neutralized.

The ten prisoners would be disposed of in two groups, one half would go to Harm Coldfist and his Directorate, while the other half would be taken to Pyre, where they would be handed over to Kral De’Valoran and his Inquisition.

Dysaryn had planned this out carefully already, and Owen had a feeling he was already planning possibilities for a retaliatory strike on whoever was behind the attack. Owen felt a pang of sympathy for those poor bastards; he had fought beside Dysaryn Stark before Revenia had even existed, in the War of Reclamation and before even that.

He knew that if there was one sure-fire method of provoking the Warprince of Revenia, it was to not only strike at his countrymen and at his friends, but at his family. To make it personal, as it were. But Owen had a hunch, and he was the kind of man who listened to his hunches, that Dysaryn wouldn’t be after personally seeing to any retaliatory strikes…

Because there were others who deserved that honor ever so much more…

‘n because Dysaryn reserved a particular form of hatred for those who attacked his family that required that he not only respond, but do so in a way that sent a message. But that was in the future...now, Owen had other things to deal with, like seeing that the press didn’t horde any RASP Operators who would probably just now be calming down…

He signaled his first squad forward, and personally imposed his power-armored body in front of a blonde reported who was trying to penetrate to the group of survivors clustered in the cavern…

well hello fellow nation staters. this is my entry for your competition. enjoy!

:mp5: :sniper: :mp5: :sniper: :mp5: :sniper: :mp5: :sniper: :mp5: :)

Annie rolled over in bed and landed with a thump on her bedroom floor.
"Annie! Annie darling wake up!" Her mother's voice floated upstairs and straight through her ear. Closing her eyes, she heard mutters coming from a small boy.
"I'll be fine mum, it'll be fun!" Oh! Annie realised and ran downstairs at break-neck speed. Her little brother was standing in the doorway of their house, being smothered with kisses from his mother. Annie had forgotten. Tom was leaving for camp! She wooped loudly and triumphantly slammed the door behind Tom as he departed.
The next few days alone with her mother were quiet and peaceful. But, for Annie, too quiet and peaceful. She missed the tantrums, the fights over the remote control, the toys littering the floor. She actually missed Tom. She had always hated her brother. But here she was, actually admitting to herself she wanted Tom back home.
When he did return, Annie raced down the stairs, but this time 7 days later. She ran forward to hug Tom and tell him about how boring her week had been, but to her surprise, Tom had something to tell her. He took a small model Pig from his pocket and thrust it into her hand.
"For you," he said, "because it reminds me of you!" He laughed. Annie rushed back up the stairs while the large scream of "Brothers!" was heard from her bedroom.
"What did I do?"

'Tis a story of just seven words.

Redford and the Gallagan Pirate

“Well,” asked the commander of His Iansislean Majesty’s Cruiser Shadoran, “What is this trash, Lieutenant Walsh?”

“Begging the captain’s pardon,” replied the officer of marines with a salute. “While I was taking the cutter to investigate that cove, sir, I found an East Gallagaman laying at anchor alongside a smaller ship. The latter tried to get under weigh, sir, and refused to acknowledge my signal to heave-to, so I fired the two pounder into her.”

“I see,” replied the lordly captain, his cold eyes scanning over the small, ragged group of Gallagans. “And this would be the crew of said ship?”

“Yes, sir. They fought like the devil to protect their prize, sir - we had to put five of them to the sword before the rest surrendered.”

“Casualties?”

“Just Aarons and Schmidt, sir. And Edwards, but he’ll be as right as rain under the surgeon’s care, I’m sure.”

A slight tick tugged at the corners of the captain’s mouth, the only breach in his omnipresent stoicism. James Solomon Redford was not the sort of person who enjoyed losing the men under his command in any circumstance, least of all the arresting of a few petty Gallagan pirates. However, Walsh showed not the slightest bit of concern for the marines under his command, and Redford was determined not to crack first. The Navy demanded many things from those who served it; complete emotional detachment, especially in wartime, was a complete necessity.

“And the East Gallagaman?” Redford forced himself to ask in a completely even tone.

“GCS Pepper, sir, reported a week late to Fort Ash, sir. They must have been taking the cargo to sell in St Walburg. Nothing but a ragtag assortment of dirty Galler pirates, sir,” said Walsh derisively.

“I am not a pirate,” said one of the Gallagan prisoners defiantly. “Nor are my men.”

“You’ll address the captain as ‘sir!’” insisted one of the marines, striking the outspoken man with the butt of his rifle.

“Stop,” ordered Redford calmly. “I assume that you put a prize crew on the Gallagaman, lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. They’ll be ready to sail with us to Nusheld inside of an hour. She’s stuffed full of ammunition - I wager the army will be happy to get their hands on her, captain.”

“And John Company will be equally eager to have his revenge,” nodded Redford. “Very well, lieutenant, if you will please show these men to their quarters? Oh, and double the rum rations for your men tonight, lieutenant.” The marines let out a quick cheer for their captain before starting to muscle the Gallagans below.

“Just a moment, Walsh,” said Redford suddenly. He nodded at the man who had spoken out. “Him - he’s the leader?”

“Near as I can figure, sir,” replied Walsh. “It’s impossible to get more than two recognizable words in a row out of these savages.”

For a moment, Redford’s eyes locked with the native’s and held there. The marines and sailors on deck fidgeted as their captain locked wits in a silent duel with the Gallagan. At last, Redford broke eye contact and looked at Walsh. “I shall see him in the wardroom, lieutenant.”

“As you will, sir,” grunted the marine, who clearly did not think that was a good idea. “Browne.” Sharp discipline paid off; that one word was all that was needed for the most burly of Walsh’s men to seize the Gallagan roughly and lead him, still shackled, in front of Redford.

“I would really prefer to go with my men,” said the Gallagan in a perfect Shieldian accent.

Redford smiled faintly. “What’s your name, Galler?”

“My name is Smith.”

“Smith?” asked Redford in confusion.

“Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Smith, sahib.” The last word was spit out in utter contempt. The other Gallagans laughed loudly as, for one second, Redford’s dignity broke down. Historical precedent called for only one response when a native challenged an Iansislean gentleman: swift, violent reprisal.

Redford shifted his gaze to young Browne. The marine’s eyes begged to be allowed to deal out just such an confirmation of Shieldian prestige; the butt of his rifle hovered just above the back of Smith’s neck.

It must have been but a few seconds that the three men stood there facing one another, but it seemed an age. Damn it all, thought Redford, every second I delay here, I lose that much more of my crew’s respect. This is a King’s ship, not a pleasure cruise; he must be punished for his impudence as any of my men would be.

But Redford had no stomach for discipline, be it on a Gallagan pirate or an honest Shieldian tar. Heavy beads of sweat trickled down the back of his white tropical duty uniform and he instantly damned it. The crew was sure to see and he knew just what they’d be thinking: if Redford can’t even bring himself to beat a blatantly belligerent Galler for the good of the service, how would he ever fight Chiang or the Ercoes? How could they know that he would not end up like Sir Robert Halders, who was tried and convicted for cowardice in the face of the enemy, his ship and men dishonored?

At last the captain shook his head slightly. Looking almost disappointed, Browne lowered his weapon.

“Well, Smith, it’s no use standing about in this heat --”

“I like it.”

“-- so I wonder if we oughtn’t to retire. If you’ll be so good as to follow me, Smith?” Redford turned sharply on his heel and set of towards the wardroom. Smith did not have a chance to refuse: Browne, the captain’s back turned, struck him squarely in the back and forced his roughly along.

Nicholas Mitchell, the Shadoran’s second lieutenant and master, was the only officer in the wardroom. He started to stand as Redford entered, but the captain bade him sit with a slight gesture of the wrist. Redford removed his peaked cap and handed it to a steward, then crossed to the liquor cabinet.

“Anything to drink, Mr Smith?” he asked, looking back. The Gallagan did not answer.

Smith’s eyes were busy roaming around the wardroom and taking in every detail. Shadoran was a new ship, but hardly a nice one. Although Iansisle’s line of battle, at the start of the war, was one of the world’s finest, her cruiser screen was notoriously underdeveloped. The shock of a war on three oceans, with battlegrounds from the South China Sea to the Western Approaches, was now stretching the storied Royal Iansislean Navy into a pretzel; no matter how fast the great shipyards of the Shield could build, the navy still demanded more.

Productivity demanded sacrifices. The elaborate teak woodwork of a prewar era heavy cruiser was conspicuously missing, as were the fine furniture and ivory carvings one might expect on an Iansislean man-of-war. Everything about Shadoran was utilitarian, even its barren liquor cabinet. Redford fixed himself a simple glass of brandy and motioned for Smith to sit. The Gallagan remained standing, as did Redford.

“You insult my ship by refusing to partake of her admittedly humble luxuries,” said Redford, more to break the rigid silence than from true social concern. Smith still refused to speak. Redford decided to try a different angle. “Mr Smith, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Lieutenant Mitchell, my second officer. Mr Mitchell, please meet Mr Smith.”

“Lieutenant,” said Smith sullenly as the Iansislean officer rose and extended a hand to him. Mitchell was a shortish man in his mid-forties with a rugged face but bright eyes. He held out his hand for several seconds before realizing that Smith had no intention of shaking it and withdrawing the offer.

“What I’ve never understood - and I hope you’ll humor me here, Mr Smith - is why your people feel the need to take to the sea in pursuit of plunder. The Navy can allow no toleration of piracy - and she has a notoriously long arm,” said Redford conversationally. “Surely, there is land enough for the tilling in Gallaga?”

“I might well reverse the question,” replied Smith. “Why, Captain Redford, do you sail thousands of miles from your homeland? All that can await you here is an early death or a lingering humiliation in a Chiangese camp.”

“Easy enough, Smith,” chuckled Redford. “Love of country - someone has to fight the Chiangese, and it might as well be me.”

“And it has never occurred to you that I may wish to fight for my country?” shot back Smith.

“It has. I rejected that assumption, however - with hundreds of Gallagans dying in Nusheld every day, why would you be stealing their ammunition for your own personal profit?”

“Gallaga has more enemies than just the Chiangese,” said Smith.

“Oh?” asked Mitchell. He had been feeling left out of the conservation. “Such as..?”

“The Iansisleans, Lieutenant Mitchell, the Iansisleans,” smiled Smith. “Now if you gentlemen will not mind, I have had quite enough meaningless banter. John Company’s wrath tends to dominate one’s mind.”

Smith’s sheer impudence left both Redford and Mitchell groping for some appropriate reply. It was true - the Company took the most horrid revenge of those who dared to hijack their ships and supplies in their waters. The hangings in royal ports were quite merciful by comparison.

Just then a midshipman entered and saluted Redford. “Begging your pardon, sir, but Mr Kilgore has sighted a ship to larboard. It’s a Company cutter, coming to take possession of the prisoners.” The boy’s eyes flitted to Smith, standing dispassionately in one corner of the wardroom, and then back to the captain.

So this is how the story is to end, thought Redford, his eyes boring into the midshipman without seeing him. The story of two King’s officers being outwitted by a Gallagan pirate will be all over the fleet inside of two months. Mitchell was obviously thinking the same thing; it would be a devastating blow to morale if Iansisle could not uphold her prestige in this area - to say nothing of the effect with the areas of central Gallaga already agitating for independence.

There was only one thing that could be done to save discipline and the prestige of the Iansislean Raj in Gallaga - but as Redford turned to look into Smith’s black eyes, he felt himself shying away from it. Smith met his gaze evenly and, for the first time, Redford sensed an equal in the dark-skinned pirate - or was he a freedom fighter? Perhaps for once the good of the service would coincide with the temperance and nobility it extolled.

“Please give Lieutenant Walsh my compliments,” Redford said to the midshipman, “and ask him if he will be so good as to meet me on deck with the prisoners.”

-----

“Shadoran’s signaling, sir,” reported a sailor on the Company’s cutter Dumjor. Harold Dunwash, a Shiedo-Gallagan and the small ship’s commander, put his own glass up to his eye and concentrated on the heavy cruiser. She was indeed hoisting something - several somethings - up her yardarms, but Dunwash recoiled in horror when he saw what they were.

“Watch your reports,” he managed to say at last to the sailor. “I have not yet met a signal flag that’s kicked while it was being run up.”

“They’ve executed the prisoners,” said Dunwash’s first lieutenant, who had the gift of pointing out the completely obvious.

“Yes.”

“Now Shadoran really is signaling, sir,” called a second sailor. “’Have... executed... prisoners... for... good... of... service.’ Now what does that mean, sir?”

“I’m not sure,” replied Dunwash truthfully. “But I have the feeling that her captain will have much to answer when he makes port.”

Wait, is this just any story, or one which is written about your nation in RP?

Wait, is this just any story, or one which is written about your nation in RP?
Any story. You may use an RP for your nation if you wish, but if it's something already on the forums you must repost it here. If it doesn't fit the 5000 word limit, edit it or choose something else.

I'd like to see original work, but I'm not stipulating anything. Once again, for those of you who missed the first dozen times, this is a challenge, not a contest. I challenge you to impress me.

"I hate this," Mandy said, setting her drink on the nightstand. "And sometimes I hate you too."

James Guang watched her with concern from his side of the bed, the covers still draped over him. He could never understand how Mandy could sit naked in their quarters, which were freezing-cold.

James shook his head, and risked slipping out of the blankets quickly to drape a nightgown around her shoulders. She shied away from his touch, and refused to turn around.

James sighed. He lay down and pulled the covers over himself. "Suit yourself," he said. "But you know what will happen if we get married."

Mandy gritted her teeth and said nothing.

"I want to marry you," James said bleakly. He hated denying her what the two of them wanted most, but he knew the cost was high. "They'll separate the two of us if we get married, put you into another unit, and just keep the two of us apart."

"We'll be separated anyway," Mandy replied. "I'm a sniper, and you're an infiltration specialist. They'll never let us stay together, not with our two specialties being as different as this."

"They're not mutually exclusive," James said, slinking out from under his covers. The cold chill of the room enveloped him, but he ignored it and wrapped his arms around Mandy, sighing in contentment as he rested his head on her smooth back. He bent to kiss her cheek, and to his amazement, discovered that it was wet.

She had been crying.

James closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, as sincerely as he knew how to say it; among other things, he was quite bad at expressing how he truly felt, even if he really did feel a certain emotion.

"Bullshit!" Mandy hissed, shoving her elbow hard into his stomach and pushing him away. "If you really wanted to, you'd marry me, and leave behind the service! But you love soldiering more than you love me, so you cant-wont do that."

James felt helpless; he didnt know what to do, and this was soemthing that had not happened in quite a while, at least not since the beginning of basic training three years ago.

Mandy bent down to pick up her clothes, but James quickly grabbed her wrist. He shivered a little, but shook it off and looked into her eyes.

"Please," he said, pleading with her.

Mandy stared at him crossly, so James embraced her carefully.

"Come on," he said, leading her back to bed. "Put something on before you catch a cold."

She shook her head and began to sob furiously. James put his head against hers, and just held her.

Sometimes, he realized, he hated himself too.

DeMilitarized Zone, Korea
Dawn
Several Months later

Mandy sat quietly in the helicopter, cradling her sniper rifle in her arms. A British made Arctic Warfare-Covert sniper rifle, she had mounted a specialized night vision scope on it, along with a custom made flash and sound suppressor that worked especially well at night.

She checked the pockets on her Kevlar-lined assault vest, which had also been specially tailored with strips of burlap and netting for better camouflage, as was her entire suit, really. She checked her facepaint with a mirror one last time, shut it, and put on her helmet, which also had loose strips of brown, darkgreen, and light green cloth sewn to the helmet cover.

Mandy sighted through her scope, toggled between the night vision and infrared functions, and nodded, satisfied.

All the while, she said nothing to James, who sat back-to-back with her. He said nothing either, as the two knew that there were harsh consequences if their superiors found them two, a couple, talking to each other on ops.

"How are we gonna enter this party soldiers?" Sergeant Liang hissed at them.

"AIR DESCENT!" they roared back, a time-honored tradition even though they had long given up on jumping out of planes.

Liang smiled, showing white teeth against his blackened face. "Go get them," he said.

The helicopter hovered off the ground and Mandy and her spotter, a slight Korean woman soldier, jumped off, heading into the bushes. James' eyes followed her, and his hand moved unconsciously to his heart as she disappeared into the foliage, masked by the rays of the rising sun.

The helicopter rose, and headed north, into the enemy's jaws.

******
As the neared the landing zone, James frowned. Something was already wrong, he knew, smelling the distinct odor of death, which was a strange mixture of feces, decay, and fear. he frowned, gripped his rifle tighter, and slipped off the helicopter at Liang's command.

"Where's your ranking officer?" Liang hissed at the nearest soldier, a dazed youngster without a helmet.

The man looked at him strangely, as did several of his comrades, who crouched behind burning hulks of vehicles, using them as cover. One of them, who carried a rocket launcher, shrugged and turned away.

"Where's the company?" Liang asked, more gently now, as it was obvious these troops were shocked beyond belief.

The rocket handler laughed. "We are the company, sir," he replied. "Everyone else is dead."

Liang grimaced, and motioned for his men to take positions. "Dagger Company, 1st Raiders?" he asked.

"We were," the soldier replied, adjusting his helmet. "Now it's just us and you Air Descent guys."

the helmetless soldier shook his head. "Twenty men," he said numbly. "That's not reinforcements.

"That's a burial detachment."

****
Five hundred meters east of their position, Mandy sighted carefully through her scope and worked the bolt on her rifle. Though she carried subsonic munitions, which meant that the bullets were less powerful, she would be virtually undetectable, which suited her just fine.

The Republic of Korea soldier next to her tapped her on the shoulder and whispered in her ear.

Mandy nodded, and swiveled her rifle to acquire the target, a pair of brown-clad North Korean scouts.

"Warn the others," she replied, a heartbeat before pressing the trigger.

*****
Strange, James thought as he crouched behind what had been a High Mobility Multipurpose Vehicle, Wheeled. He slipped a grenade into his underbarrel grenade launcher, and carefully sighted into the weeds north of his position, towards the DMZ.

Gunfire broke out from all sides, tracers slamming into their position, and hitting several, including the man who had his helmet off. He died immediately, his head erupting in a fountain of gore.

"Return fire!" Liang bellowed. His men were dispersed in an outward facing U-formation, with the curve of the U facing the oncoming north koreans. THey also had snipers and another rocket team on their flanks, so they should be fine for a while.

James grimaced as he fired and hit an oncoming skirmisher. He ignored the sweat running down his face and prayed that Mandy was alright. He didnt care if he was hurt or not, but if anythign happened to her, he didnt know what he would do with himself.

"Tighten up your line of fire, Guang!" Liang hissed at James, who quickly snapped back to reality and fired again, sighting through his smaller, less capable scope. All around him, men were dropping like flies, and the cries of hte wounded rang out across the uneven ground.

******
Mandy hissed as she took out a North Korean with an antitank missile launcher. "They're coming too fast," she said to her counterpart, who nodded in agreement. "We cant help them like this."

The North Koreans had reached the position now, and were falling like overfilled sacks. Mandy estimated that the amount of bodies were close to a hundred already, but the concentrated AK fire was taking a toll on her comrades.

"We have to help them," Mandy said desperately. She clenched her jaw.

"There is nothign we can do," her counterpart replied quietly.

Mandy expertly reloaded as she ran out of bullets, slapping in another clip and sighting again on a North Korean who was dangerously close to James' position. She tightened her finger, and the man's head was destroyed--but another one rushed to take his place, and out of room, he quickly slammed his rifle into James' helmet, stunning him.

Mandy's eyes went wide, and she gasped as she saw James topple to the ground. She whimpered a little, but then depressed the trigger again, killing that man.

Jamesgetoutofthereyouidiot, she thought. Allofyouleave....

She keyed her comm. "Fall back!" she snarled. "We'll cover you."

*****
But James knew the stakes. Behind them were two convoys of South Korean civilians, the only reason that the two squads of lightly armed paratroopers had been sent to fight a suicidal delaying action agianst the North Koreans. Should they retreat now, there would be nothing standing between the North Koreans and civilians.

"Mandy," he said, regaining his balance and slamming his rifle into a man's head. He frowned; blood flowed from a cut on his left side and into his left eye, blinding him. "Mandy..."

*****
Tears streamed down her face as she kept up a steady stream of bullets. As sooon as she heard James' voice, however, she stopped.

He was in pain, she realized. She swung her scope over to his position, and saw a reflective, red substance in the dim morning light.

Blood.

She froze, not hearing the desperate pleas of her spotter to keep up the fire. She only heard the sounds of hte men there, fighting for their lives.

Her comrades. And more specifically, her husband, or the man she wanted to be her husband.

Her spotter wrenched the rifle from her hands and began to use it herself.

Mandy rolled onto her back and closed her eyes.

James, she thought. You bastard.

****
James Guang smiled through bloodstained teeth as he fired off a grenade, only to be hit in the chest by a rifle butt. he fell backwards, groping for his pistol, but before he could do so, several North Koreans fell on him and began to beat him unconscious.

****
Mandy picked up her binoculars and saw the scene. She screamed, finally losign her composure, but her anguished cry was drowned out by the sounds of battle all around her.

Her spotter hit her in the face and hissed at her to shut up. Mandy just sat back, dazed. She rolled on her back.

She wanted to die with him.

Bwah. I've got original fiction, but...

It's kinda at 14,000 words, give or take. And growing. Wargh.

Bwah. I've got original fiction, but...

It's kinda at 14,000 words, give or take. And growing. Wargh.
The solution to this is to take an excerpt from the story that fits within the 5000 word limit. Something that gives us a taste of what the story is about and whets our appetite for more.

It's up to you.

Mandy looked pretty when she cried, James thought. She looked beautiful to him even as she stood there, covered in camouflage paint and dressed to blend in with the foliage. She held a sniper rifle.

James relaxed. Mandy was not captured, he knew. She would help him escape. She would save him. She would come for him.

James squinted, trying to make out the details of her face. He knew she was crying because she told him so, and because the sunlight glinted off the tears on her blackened face.

He frowned. Where was he? He reached for his weapons, but he couldnt find his assault rifle. Where were his comrades?

Just then, he noticed the bodies lying beside him. Liang had his face shattered by a grenade; Queenie, their heavy weapons specialist, had been shot through the heart. Jason, their air controller, had been blown apart by a mortar round.

James stared at twenty-five bodies strewn over a small, makeshift bunker area. He shook them, called their names, pleaded with them.

THey didnt answer. he found his own body too.

His face had been smashed in by a blunt object.

James' eyes widened and he turned to Mandy to warn her. He ran towards her, screaming, shouting for her to get away, but she kept crying.

Through his confusion, James saw her shoulder her rifle and peer through the scope.

She was aiming at him.

He yelled, waving his arms to show her that he was James, and was still yelling at the top of his lungs when the bullet ripped through his heart, ending it all.

James woke to find himself in blackness. He frowned, struggling to recall the events of a few hours ago, and then it all came rushing back-

-everyone was dead. everyone except Mandy and some of the other snipers, who had managed to withdraw. He had been beaten until he was barely conscious, and dragged to a small brick building not far from the DeMilitarized Zone, a building that he himself had once sat in for guard duty.

He grimaced, and tasted blood in his mouth. Two of his molars had been broken off, but one of them was a wisdom tooth, so it didnt really matter anyway. He tried to move, then felt sharp pains all over his body as he tried to do so.

James laid back down and shuddered; he had been stripped naked before being thrown into this makeshift jail cell. His gear was undoubtedly in the hands of hte North Koreans now.

He curled into the fetal position, trying to keep warm but at the same time, trying to forget the pain that coursed through his body. The only thought that sustained him was the fact that Mandy had escaped unscathed.

*******
Forward Operating Area
Twenty kilometers behind the front lines

"There is no way you're going back in there!" Sergeant Wells roared. "We have enough to worry about as it is, and we need all the help we can get!"

Mandy's face was drawn from fatigue

Mandy stared at him sullenly. "One of my comrades is alive," she said. "I want to go back for him."

"James is dead," Wells said to her bluntly. "They all are, and there's nothing we can do about it. More people will be dead if those men and women hadnt given their lives to stall the advance."

"I saw him!" Mandy hissed. She turned to her spotter. "Min did also!"

Kang Min sighed, and shrugged. "No," she said. "Everyone died."

Mandy glared at her. "The truth," she snarled. "Tell Wells the truth."

Min shifted uneasily. "That is the truth," she said.

Mandy lunged at her. "You bitch--"

Wells slammed his shoulder into her and knocked her to the ground. "That is enough!" he roared. "You will defer to Min, who is a corporal in the Korean army! You are a mere specialist!"

Mandy stood up, her eyes aflame. She was about to say something, but she turned her back and stomped out of the tent, picking up her sniper rifle as she left.

Min ran after her.

"Mandy!" she shouted above the din of a hundred soldiers moving, yelling, groaning. "Mandy!"

"Piss off!" Mandy snapped back.

"Try to understand," Min said, catching up to her. "The possibility that he's alive now is--"

"He was alive when I saw him," Mandy said, turning. Min was shocked to see tears streaming down Mandy's face. "And unless I see his body, he is still alive!"

Min shook her head. "Don't try to do it," she said. "I know what you're thinking."

"No, you dont," Mandy replied, starting to walk away.

"I'm your spotter," Min called. "I know you as well as you know yourself. Dont do it, Mandy. You'll die also."

"Then at least I can be with James," she said.

******
They plunged him into the ice cold water, longer this time, and threw him out after nearly two minutes of submersion. By then, James, unprepared for holding his breath for long periods of time, was coughing out water.

Major Lee stood over him, a reed in his hands and two burly North Korean soldiers by his side.

"There is no real reason for this," Lee said slowly in American-accented English. "You and me--we are both men of Asia. There is no reason why you cannot tell me what I ask, no reason that we cannot cooperate."

James shook his head. He hadnt spoken English in quite a while, so he switched to Korean, which he spoke with a slight accent. "I am a soldier," he said simply. "I follow orders. I did not do anything I was--"

Lee swung his boot into James' face, sending him reeling backwards. "Bullshit," the major hissed. "You killed almost a hundred of my men alone, and your position cost my unit nearly half its soldiers."

Lee paused, and raised his foot. He brought it down on James' shoulder, which was oozing pus from an infected cut, and ground his heel into it.

James cried out in pain and pleaded with him to stop.

"I do remember now that there was an inconsistency in the size of the bullets," Lee said, almost absent-mindedly. "Some of them were larger than your rounds, quite a substantial amount. Which must mean that they were inflicted by a sniper. Further, I did not hear nor see any shots, so that must mean that they were using a supressed weapon."

James shook his head. "MP5SD," he said, referring to a silenced submachine gun that some in his unit carried.

Lee slammed his boot into James' face, sending him reeling backwards and crashing into the water tank. "The rounds were too large!" he hissed. "Tell me the truth!"

James shook his head and murmured. His jaw was broken now, and it hurt like hell. But at least he couldnt speak.

Lee guessed as much. "Take him away," he ordered the two soldiers, who immediately grabbed him and dragged him down the hall to his cell. They tossed him against the wall, delivered one or two kicks for good measure, and slammed the door shut.

James rolled over on his side and began to cough up blood. WHen he finished, he checked himself for injuries; as far as he knew, he had an infected cut from a bayonet, massive internal bleeding, two missing teeth, two large cuts on his forehead, which dripped blood down half his face and into his eye so he couldnt see, and possbly some damage to his back.

He shook his head, and prayed that Mandy would not come for him. At this point, he had moved past the possibility of rescue, and all he could hope for now was a quick death.

He curled into a ball and whimpered. He longed for Mandy's touch, her soft whisper, and her calm, reassuring demeanor.

He shook his head. He hoped that she would survive, and get the hell out of this godforsaken peninsula.

I have never posted here before, but would anyone like to learn of what Silence and Nothing truly is? Or maybe the history, like why Gewd (pronounced "jed") is no longer queen and why Koete is now.

~The queen of Silence and Nothingness, Koete

ps, if you do wish to read it, send me a telegram.

[OOC: This is another purely for the challenge submission where I imagine what it would be like for Automagfreek to actually surrender, and for that surrender to come at my hands.]

The walk past the Halls of Death was strangely lonely for Damien. The words he never thought he’d hear himself say were rattling in his head and he wished he could just speak them already and get them over with. As much as he relished hearing those words coming from the mouths of all the foes he vanquished over the years, having to intone them himself was going to be a strange experience, indeed.

It wasn’t just what he was about to say that was so strange. How he got there, to this point when he was about to utter the two words that turned every warrior’s stomach was odd. His vaunted Sentinels lay dead or dying along the streets of his beloved homeland, felled by the weapons of an inexperienced army that saw its first live combat against the world’s most dreaded armies. His navy, never his country’s strength to begin with, was now just a collection of shattered hulks sitting at the bottom of the portside cities where they once readied themselves to bring terror from the high seas. His air force was now a collection of damaged parts strewn all about the countryside.

His steps weighed heavily on his mind, as did the words he would have to say. Finally, the men who would end this ordeal and begin the next for him and his closest advisors stood in the clearing waiting for him. The great Lord Damien Dreadfire, once the most feared man in the world, would now meet the three men who would decide his fate once and for all. The man on Damien’s right wore an army uniform and the markings of what looked like a lieutenant general. Figures they couldn’t at least give me a damn field marshall, he thought. To Damien’s left was a man in a naval uniform. Considering the country from which he came, that came as no surprise. But the man in the middle was wearing an executive's suit.

He finally stopped about a meter away from the three men and soon, the words he never expected to utter, never wanted to have spew out of his mouth like the venom he normally cast on humanity became a reality for the world to hear.

“President Mike Sarzo, General Taylor Dent, Admiral Marcus Patinkin, I surrender.”

Surprisingly, the one civilian in the triumverate who oversaw the battle plan that did in Automagfreek was the one who did not react outwardly to the words. Dent raised an eyebrow slightly. Despite their lack of combat experience, his army fared very well fighting off three attempts by the Sentinels to land in Sarzonia. The one attempt that succeeded resulted in a scorched earth campaign on the part of the Sarzonian army. They evacuated the towns and villages in the Sentinels’ path and resorted to guerilla warfare tactics to reduce the numbers of the invading armies. They also rigged key buildings with explosives so that when enough Sentinels were in one, the building would explode and consign them to a Hell on earth. With their numbers dwindling and their supply lines destroyed by multiple special operations attacks, the Sentinels withdrew from the one city where they launched their attack.

Patinkin let a small smile escape from his dour expression. His navy was long the most powerful branch of the Sarzonian military and it decimated the Freek navy in battle after battle. The Freek sailors had limited experience against enemy fleets, particularly against enemy fleets that were as battle tested as their ground troops. But they ran into a navy that was large and well-trained and it resulted in their country being blockaded. Carrier aircraft from the Sarzonian navy also took out the Freek air force and helped special operations forces knock out power lines and supply convoys, leaving the Freeks and Sentinels who now had to defend their home turf ill equipped for their task.

Stepping forward, Sarzo took the sword offered by Dreadfire as a token of his surrender and motioned to his secret service to take the once feared lord of destruction prisoner. The Halls of the Dead would live no more.