2004 Writing Challenge [Archive]

Independent Wiccans

15-11-2004, 18:23

Outside Stalingrad

An unusual look at war from the side of the Germans.

Disclaimer :- The following is a work of fiction based upon a true battle that took place during the Second World War. Mild swearing.

The cold snow blasted through the air, swirling around the trenches, brushing over the thin coats and hats of the unprepared German soldiers. They never expected anything like this.

Some of the boys had raided a house in an earlier movement, before the winter. They were a little smarter than the rest and while their fellows took jewellery and dear belongings, Flieger and his friend Hilchot instead took the coats of those whom they had, regrettably, been given orders to execute.

Flieger ducked below the frozen trenches, his frozen hands burning against the brittle ice as a cold mark scratched down his hand. He jerked it back, only to find that he couldn’t retain balance and slipped on the ice which had formed at the bottom of the trench. His head slammed into the rear of the retched ice trap, a couple of small marks fading into view on the softer spots of his neck. He cursed. Hilchot came around the corner to help him up. He laughed.

“These coats are warmer than what are friends have got, but they aren’t battle armour!” He offered his hand to Flieger, who took it. Flieger immediately became suspicious at the warmth of Hilchot’s hand but was so relieved to be able to feel some warmth that he simply grasped on tighter. The small surge of energy given to him by the feeling made him shoot up, almost to fall down again.

“You better watch yourself on this ice.” His friend taunted. “Imagine if someone were to do this…” Hilchot tapped Flieger’s foot lightly, causing his to skid. Flieger was, for a second, shocked beyond belief as he plunge down towards the ice, before Hilchot caught him.

“That wasn’t necessary” responded Flieger, referring to his friends demonstration.

“Okay then.” Hilchot lowered him and let go of him, sending Flieger’s back slamming into the ice behind him. Flieger arched his back a little at the cold but just grinned at Hilchot. What a god awful place these two had become stuck in.

Hilchot helped him up properly once more, the same warm glow still resonating from his hands. This time though, he assisted him, helping him into the relative warmth of the bunker behind them.

“Ah, Welcome!” The officer greeted them. “Rations and rats are on the menu tonight. I hope you’re hungry.” However meagre that sounded, Flieger knew that no rat would be stupid enough to come into this hell pit. He admired the rats for that, they wouldn’t do anything they didn’t want to do. In the First World War, when he’d had to deal with mud instead of snow, the rats would scower for cover when the artillery shells hit, hiding in the holes whilst the soldiers had no choice but to cower from them, hoping it wouldn’t be the last sound they heard.

As they sat eating their paltry rations, Hilchot seemed to have a fresh glow abut him which neither of his friends could place. The officer glanced over at him a couple of times and hinted at Flieger, clearly aware something was wrong. After they finished, the men split, duties to perform.

Flieger had to clean out the slabs of concrete which counted as bunkers. It was the most enviable job in the whole trench except if you got any of the various liquids scattered about for cleaning on yourself. Some would put you into an itching frenzy, others would freeze on contact with your skin, causing the unlucky recipient to be forced to take off their uniform in order to remove it, inevitably leaving them with a numb patch of skin.

As he set about his task, Flieger had time to reflect on the day. The thing capping his mind, for there was not much else to think about, was the warmth he had felt from Hilchot earlier. It was most unusual in this place and it made him wary. Despite this he continued about his duties, cleaning the bunkers, before proceeding into the final one.

Chilled to the bone, as always, he had difficulty with the idiotically sized door, pushing it against the snow. There were a couple of members of their group who used to use this as a form of exercise, to help warm their bodies up in the freezing cold. Heaving it aside after much effort, he began cleaning it. Of course, by cleaning, it was simply getting rid of anything that looked like it might multiply tenfold every minute they were in the trench.

As he moved to the last corner, he slipped on the iced up floor, knocking one of the fluids into his ankle. He screamed in pain as the cold liquid solidified on his flesh. Forcing himself to remove his boot, he managed to remove it without injury other than a black spot of flesh. The scream he had made caused another sound to be returned from one of compartments. The sound was that of a low moan, only comparable to that of a female person, but it was muffled. No one ever went into that ‘room’, it’s door typically too stiff to open without the help of a fellow. Flieger tried anyway and was surprised to find it opened without any serious effort. Inside he found a Russian women, bound in two places.

He knelt down and took off her gag which was muffling her speech. Unfortunately, he knew little Russian, but the women was obviously hysterical. He couldn’t help her at that moment he knew, he had to return for a meal and she wouldn't be able to escape. He had to re-gag her, prompting her to cry uncontrollably. He tried to give her comforting looks, but nothing he tried could help. He returned to his friends.

"Nice of you to finally join us 'comrade'." Hilchot said in a low dull tone. "Now, now friend, the Fuhrer put us out here to work together for the greater Germany and work together we shall. He's only a little late." The officer chirped in, in-between gulps.

Hilchot continued to pay attention to his food. Flieger gave him a despising stare but it was not observed by the glutton across the table from him. Flieger ate his food quickly, but not faster than Hilchot, who headed in the direction of the final bunker. Flieger trailed him through the cold to the waiting bunker. He poked his head round the corner and found what he had expected. He thought for a second then began to step around the corner. At that instant, an artillery shell hit nearby, showering Flieger in snow.

"You bastard Jew!" Hilchot shouted. He ran out into the trenches, dashing past Flieger who was still trying to wipe the snow from his face. Flieger ignored him, walking past him to the naked woman in front of him. "Your probably lucky. You should be dead." He said to the women, untying her. The woman stared at him blankly, eyes full of fright and hope at the same time. She said something in Russian, hugged him, quickly put on her clothes and left in the direction of the Russian camp. Flieger didn't give her much of a chance in the freezing cold but inside wished her luck.

When he next saw Hilchot the man was dead, lifeless, pale and with no sign of warmth. Although mourning his friend's loss, Flieger felt a warm glow for his act, stronger than all the cold this place could throw at them. At that moment he remembered about the war going on around him and turned only to fall to ground next to his friend, the Russians overrunning the trenches and killing everyone that occupied it.

Falcania

15-11-2004, 18:26

Does it have to be NS based? I have several good works of prose, but none of them NS.

DemonLordEnigma

15-11-2004, 18:31

Actually, I've been wanting to do something on Terrator for awhile, so this should be fun. And, no, it won't be borrowed from other genres.

Staggering drunks

15-11-2004, 18:35

I have some writing on my character Andreus on this page that I think is ok, its sort of movie style too.(its about halfway down)

http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=363991&page=7&pp=15

And this is the aftermath of the fight, its on the page, scroll down for it

http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=363991&page=9&pp=15

Kaukolastan

15-11-2004, 20:04

OOC: Well, this isn't a piece of writing, since all my stories tend to run into the BIG HUGE variety. This is the first couple of posts of a story I wrote in serial form for NS with a puppet, but never finished. Beh... enjoy, but it's pseudo-sci-fi, so consider yourself warned.

Run! The other man screamed in His face, pausing only for a minute, his visored helmet falling over young features, too young. The man kept running, and He turned, trying to see what was happening. Fire. The whole city is burning. His vision swayed as He ran, but this wasn't right. It was as if He was watching through a camera that bobbed and swayed, transmitting someone else's vision. The view was tinged an odd green, like through a lens of some sort... a visor, maybe. He could feel His feet pounding, weight of weapons smacking his armored leggings. DEMPR Rifle, SOPMOD. The rifle was in His vision, an odd design of tubes and deflectors...but He knew how it worked. An explosion threw him down-

Buildings tumbled, stones rolled. I'm fine! I need to get to the battle! Battle? He wondered. Where is this? Three moons hung in the sky, and fire traced the heavens. A streak of fire rushed to the ground, and a fountain of fire erupted forth. The Third Fleet is still here! We're not dead yet! He was climbing the blasted wreck of a building, while people ran past him fleeing from where he headed-

FLASH

A wall of energy, cascading down. Bodies flew in all directions, sprays of burning organs that silenced screams. I have arrived. Amid the carnage, a beast rose, a wall of darkness before it. The screaming masses scattered, parting around a still island in the human sea, even as they fled. The dark being stopped, halted, perhaps fear on its twisted face as the crowd parted to reveal a man, kneeling, a hood over his helmetted head, a grin on his face. The man rose, smiled-

Who is this man?

I rose from the rubble from my crouch, charging into the Dreadlord. I have an arsenal at my disposal, and Time is my friend. I will cleanse- The man drew two guns- AESIR Assault Pistols He flipped his shoulders, the cloak flipping away in the fiery breeze as lightning lanced from the barrels-

FLASH

Plasma wash on magnetic armor. Guns lay around, discarded as their ammo was drained, and the man dueled with his opponent. Both were scarred, ragged, and reduced to close quarters weapons... swords? Magnetically channelled energy, Temporal Distortions. Man and monster maneuvered about each other, flashes of fire and darkness-

I have met my opponent, and he is mine. An explosion of light, a falling beast.

FLASH

Starfire, a wall of it, cascading down as transports lift. General! We can hold them-

There's no time! We must leave, or the Fleet will slag us, too.

We can stop this!

The world fell away, and He looked at his feet, booted and bloody as He stood in the Transport hold, His armored hand against a transparasteel port. Behind Him, children cowered, adults glared... at Him. He was their hated subject, their target. He was their savior, their bane. Why do I fight?

FLASH

It's okay, you're safe now. A woman, beautiful and intense. It was a victory.

How can we call THAT a victory? He stood on a starship, watching the world beyond.

Because we have to. Because you're alive.

FLASH

He stood now, before an army, and they praised Him with lifted weapons. Tomorrow we face the Shadow, and we shall emerge victorious! For we are right, we are just, and we are chosen! An army bellowed in response, but He was hollow, burning with hate and anger. Aurora...

FLASH

He cried on a black deck-

FLASH

Energy meets energy in a crackling display. Two men stand in mortal combat, and He is one of them. Lights die, thousands perish, and they fight onward-

FLASH

Death. There is only Death, as far as the eye can see, stretching on barren planes and burning skies... This is my victory... this is my pain...

FLASH

"No!" he screamed. Jason Derval woke up in a cold sweat, his mind ravaged by nightmares. He gasped, rolled over, and flipped on the light. What the hell? What was that- Some nights, he couldn't escape these visions, they carved into his brain. I suppose I should get my head shrunk. A psych might help me. For bad dreams? Fuck it, Jason. Go back to bed. He glanced at the alarm clock, and moaned in disbelief. It's only four thirty... damnit. There's three more hours of these nightmares.

He swung his feet from his bed, sliding into his slippers. He tread through his apartment, glancing over at his presentation on the table. Sighing, he opened the fridge and grabbed a piece of cold pizza. Just give it up, you aren't going to get any more sleep. He looked over at the open medicine cabinet. Out of sleeping pills again. Damnit. He flipped on the TV, scanning through infomercials and porn to try and ease his tormented mind.

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Jason flipped his laptop up on the coffeehouse table, turned it on. WiFi Detected. The wireless connection activated, and he began to scan the news. Let's see... stock market is up, employment is down, another car bomb in the Middle East, and what's this... another accounting scandal. Bleck. Another day that was neither good nor bad, mixed results of positive and negative, hope and discouragement. He took a sip of his coffee and winced. Gagh! What is that? Maple? In my coffee? He slid the five dollar drink away from him, trying to clean the sugar from his teeth.

The door clanged, and Peter Arrick stepped into the house. He saw Jason, grinned, and lifted his backpack up, a hint of some new half-brained idea. Peter was one of those rogue genius types, brilliant yet completely unmotivated. Well, I can't say that. He's very motivated when he feels like it. What does he have today? Peter snagged a cup from the counter, spun the correct change on with his other hand, winking to the girl behind the counter, who rolled her eyes at his nitwit behavior. He dropped next to Jason.

"Hey, man. You aren't gonna believe what I got in my bag!" Peter exclaimed.

"If it's not a copy of the test, I don't care, Peter."

"Aw. It's better than that. I ripped the magnetron out the seventh floor microwave, and I'm gonna make ball lightning!"

"Jesus! Point that somewhere else!" Jason poked the bag. "I don't wanna glow from the radiation!"

Peter started explaining his plans to irradiate birds and such, but Jason fazed out. Everything seemed to double up, like he was crosseyed, but the sound was echoing. With each moment, one of the scenes moved further from the other, becoming more dissonant until he seemed to be witnessing an echo. He was seeing the same scene at five second intervals, hearing the sounds repeat seconds later. His head swam, and he tried to focus. He locked onto reality, tried to seize it, repeating after Peter...

"...and that's the plan." they said in unison.

Peter jolted a little, stared at Jason. "How'd you know what I was gonna say?"

"I was repeating you!"

"No, you weren't. You even lead me at times!"

"Huh. Weird." Jason looked around, shifting the conversation. "Howard will be along in a few."

"Cram time?"

"Oh yeah. I guess I should have gone to more classes."

Peter snorted. "I'll stick around, help you guys."

"Help? More like, open your book for the first time."

"We had a book?"

Jason shook his head. "Yes, we had a book."

"Shit."

Maybe he's got the right theory, just having fun. It's not like I care... why am I doing this?

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Jason paced down the street, his black shoes kicking into the fine powder snow beneath. Next to him, Peter and Howard were talking about some kind of frat party that was going down tonight, but he wasn't really listening, simply smiling when he figured he should. With every step, the cold around him sunk through his skin, into his chest. For some reason, he felt the urge to run, to kick the snow beneath his feet, to slip across the cold landscape. What am I running for? What would that do? There's no reason! But still, the urge stayed with him, the need to run from this location. He wasn't afraid, nor cold, nor did he enjoy running... yet, more than anything, he had the urge to sprint away. I would not be here, in this spot. I would be in the next, and it may be better.

"-you up for the kegger tonight?" Howard asked.

Jason shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

Peter grinned, "Yeah, after you both take this test. Heh. Suckers."

Howard demanded, "Do you even go to class? What do you do?"

The other man shrugged, "Sometimes. Hell, gotta work... get cash."

"To pay for nothing?" Jason asked.

"Dude, it's college. More money is coming from it!"

"Yeah, sure." Jason stated, glancing away from the grinning man. It doesn't matter anyway.

"Huh? What's wrong with-"

"Nothing. You're right." Jason sped up, seperating from his friends. As his pace quickened, he could feel the urge to run from them tense. Why am I running from my friends? He slowed down, berating himself. You're a moron, Jason. Complete and total. There's no need to get pissy with them because they don't get it. He paused, "Get what?"

"Huh?" Howard asked.

"I don't get it. Why are we doing this?"

"What?"

"I don't know... everything... born, breathe, eat, sleep, fuck, and die?" Jason shrugged. "Everything just seems so blasse, nothing will change. We work twenty years to become cogs and work forty more, then retire and die. And what have we done? Spat some more junk into the gene pool? Lovely fate, that. Born, screw, die, repeat."

Peter commented, his breath puffing on the cold air, "Dunno. But it sure is fun."

"Fun for now. But then it shreds on you... nothing is worth anything." Jason bit his tongue then. "Jesus, what am I saying? Sorry 'bout that. I was up all night again, I'm not thinking right."

Howard, with an odd glance, shrugged. "Yeah, it's cool."

Peter just turned away. "Whatever, man. Hey, check it out!" he pointed to a group on the corner. "It's the pinkos out again. Morons."

Ahead, there was a group of Campus Socialists on the corner, as usual, waving their signs and cards, shouting slogans. Today's theme was apparently "Anti-War", and it was full of vitriol, more than usual. "Stop the killings!" one of the students yelled, and the others echoed him. The leader saw the three students watching, and he began to chant one of the semi-rhyming cheer that protestors loved these days, "Down with the killers, down with the soldiers."

Jason felt his upper lip curl back in derision, and his fist clenched a little. To his side, Howard called back, "You know, we need to protect our allies! They're under attack!"

One of the mob screamed in return, "They're butchering the children over there! No war for oil!"

Peter took this one, "We don't even need oil! We have three new reserves opening! We're there because those jackasses thraxed Terrina!"

To this, the leader started a new slogan, "Never war, never more!"

Jason heard these ring in his ears, the words bouncing inside his head. To the man's sing-song chant, he heard the thunder of a thousand men and women, screaming as fire consumed them. He felt a wrenching sensation, he staggered a little bit, leaned against a stop sign, his vision swimming, his ears ringing. There was fire in the skies, stretching downward towards the gleaming city. He was looking up, staring at the falling destruction, his hand clenching the pommel of a weapon that screamed for blood. His eyes were narrowed, his breath was seething between clenched teeth, his eyes burned. He could save them, but he was forbidden...

"There is no need to intervene. They are lost, and we would only lose more men in a pointless fight."

"We've damned them!" he stated, his voice venom.

The chant was continuing, and Jason found himself closing on the other students. His vision was narrowed, through half closed eyes and against smoking breath. He was speaking, but his voice was not his own, "-the only pointless fight is to try and change people like you, people who would let worlds die rather than suffer any possible discomfort! I ought to-" he stopped his voice, but his mind finished the chain, -strike you down and let you bleed. Then you might understand the need to fight. Or you would die. He felt pain in his hand, and he looked down. In his clenched fist, blood was running from his palm, and he had his boot knife there, slicing his own skin. The blood was falling on the snow. My God, what was I thinking?

He shoved his hand into his pocket, hiding the blood. Where did that rage come from. There was no reason! He looked about, but no one had seen the shiv. Howard and Peter caught him. "Damn, man!" Peter stated. "Didn't know you felt that strongly! You tore them apart." If you only knew. What is happening to me?

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

Jason stepped into McKinnley Hall for the exam, followed by Peter and Howard. His hand was wedged in his pocket firmly, and he could feel the blood caked on it. Better clean that off. "Hey, I gotta stop in the bathroom. Meet you in class." he stated, stepping aside.

"See ya." the other two answered, and Jason pushed the restroom door open. He stepped inside, walked to the sink. He pulled his hand from his pocket, and it was covered in blood. My God. His hand was caked in rust color from his wrist to fingers. How bad is it? He turned the water on, put his hand under the flow, trying to get the cake away without re-opening the slash. The blood fell away from his hand with ease, to reveal the cut... or lack thereof. There was no cut on his hand. Impossible. I saw the cut! It was several inches long! He looked at his hand, turned it under the now scalding water. Nothing. What the hell?

Jason grabbed the towels, dried his hands. He stepped into the hallway. Maybe I just imagined? But the blood! So wrapped up in his thoughts, he walked right into something. "Oof!" he exhaled as he rebounded slightly. He caught his balance, and saw the girl he had run right into. She slipped a little in the impact, fell back... and he grabbed her arm, yanked her back to balance. "I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed. "I was thinking about the exam-"

She blinked slightly, amazed at how fast he had moved. "No problem... I should have bee watching..." her eyes brightened a little, "Hey, you heading for Freeston's?"

Jason felt a little bubble inside. Score! Talking to a girl! Don't screw up! "Yeah... you?" he asked. Good so far. Don't say anything stupid!

The blonde girl shrugged, smiled. "Yeah, got to take the exam on the Cold War. Bunch of shit, anyway." she sighed.

"Nah." Jason stated. That's good, impress with knowledge! "It ain't too bad. Just remember, if he asks who won, you gotta say "nobody", because he flips on people who say we did. Also, be careful if questions come up about the Jungle Wars... remember the phrases "Mission Creep" and "Military-Industrial Complex". He's really biased on those." Score!

She rolled her eyes, "I don't get it. We should get in there early."

"Yeah, good point." he stated.

As they walked, she asked, "Hey, aren't you Jason Derval? You were confronting those guys outside!"

Uh-oh. "Yes, I was. What's your name?" he stated, hoping this wasn't going downhill.

"Oh." was all she stated as she stepped away.

"What?" Jason asked. "Is something wrong?"

She didn't answer, simply hurried away from him. Screw you, bitch. He closed his eyes, punched the locker next to him. Why me? Ahead, she jumped slightly as his fist clanged from the metal. Stupid! He berated himself as he followed her into the classroom. As he entered, she was sitting with her friends, and they were glaring at him. On their shirts, they were wearing "Stop the War" buttons. Oh, for God's sake, it's not like I kill puppies! He sat down to take the test.

1.) What is the reason...

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Jason stood, glancing back down at the test. There. That's the best I'm going to do. He didn't check his answers or essays, simply filed his papers in order. This was the way he had always been. He would do something once, never again, never checked. He wrote one copy of an essay, and that was the final. He answered a question once, and never checked it. If I altered it, I run the greater risk of creating error and doubt. He glanced about. No other student stood, they were hunched over their tests. First. He walked to the Prof, handed the packet over. The man asked, "Jason, why didn't you come to class?"

"I was sick." Ha. I was sitting there, and I decided it was better to sit there.

"Okay." He didn't buy it.

Jason left the room, pulled the zipper on his leather coat up, taking another glance at his hand. He stepped out, into the freezing winter air. Outside, cars were plowing through the slushy roads, hurling sprays of gray snow onto the salted sidewalks. The sun was setting slightly, and the lights were kicking on, illuminating the restaraunts and shops around campus. Jason put his hands in his coat to keep them warm and walked down the street. His phone rang in his pocket, and he fished it out.

"Hello." he stated, flipping out the face of the cell phone.

"How did the test go?" his mother asked from the other end.

"Fine." he stated. Amazing. I want to talk to my family, and then I only give one word replies. Stupid, Jason! "It was fine."

"Do anything social today?"

"Yeah." he stated absently, thinking hard for a "social" activity. "I went to breakfast with some friends."

"You need to get out more." the concerned voice replied. "You can't just hole up-"

"Yeah, I know. Hey, I've got to go-"

"Alright. Love you."

"Same." he closed the phone, and flipped it closed, hoping it would ring again. Why did I not say anything? What is there to say? He grimaced and kept walking. They're trying to talk to me. I want to talk to them. But I don't. He swallowed a little lump in his throat and pressed through the chill. He would go home now, read a book or watch TV or surf the net. He would sit there, in silence, lights out, and pretend the world did not exist. Then, he would try to sleep... This ritual was his, and it continued every day.

His skin had grown pale, and he found no interest in the weather. He stepped over the snow, merely avoiding the ice. Never once did he think of throwing any, or sliding down a hill, or of building something. He simply watched oncoming cars, stepping aside with careful timing to avoid the spray of slush. Ahead, there was a gathering of teenagers, all shoving and swearing. Other people stepped aside, but Jason simply walked towards them, not caring.

He stepped into the center of the argument, then slid out the other side without pause. Behind, the group fell silent, and then there was a call, "What you doing, rich boy?" Jason kept walking, ignoring the ruffian. "I'm talking to you! Don't walk away from me, bitch!" there was running behind him, and Jason turned, slowly.

"What?" he asked. "I'm not rich, and I'm not bothering you. Just leave me alone." he turned to keep walking, ignoring the anger.

"Ax-you-a-lee, you are pissing me off, rich boy. How about I take those shoes and nice coat. I think I like that leather." the other man stated, closing with Jason.

Jason turned back, realizing where he was. Fear began to set in. I'm going to get killed. He took off his coat. "Here." he handed it over.

"Much better." the other man stated, grinning, a switchblade in his hand. "Now, the shoes."

Jason lifted his leg, reached for his first shoe. His vision flashed, and he saw something different. His shoe was a boot, tucked under armored leggings and black utility pants. He blinked hard, the vision returning to normal. He dropped his foot, and he stood again on both feet, reeling backwards slightly as his vision cut in and out. The punk was now against a burning backdrop, and the knife was a wicked dagger. He staggered a little. The mugger glared, "What the hell you doing? Give me yer damn-"

Jason doubled over, his vision whiting out, his ears ringing. The robber stepped forward, and Jason's head snapped up to face him. In his eyes, there was a steel glare, and a crooked grin was on his face. Disconcerted by the madman's smile, the mugger froze for a moment, scared. But he could not back down, not now, his reputation was at stake. He stepped forward, raising the knife-

Jason lunged forward with blinding speed, and his vision faded to whiteness, his ears heard nothing, he felt nothing. He fell unconscious as he moved-

FLASH

Jason opened his eyes. What happened? He looked about, and there were bodies. My God! The mugger was lying on the pavement, his neck spurting blood three feet into the snow, his arm twisted beneath him. Next to him, another two bodies were laid out, one bent double backwards, the other with head nearly detatched. Another man was lying over a car hood several feet away, blood streaming from under his left armpit. There was shattered glass near a restaraunt window, and a pair of legs hung from a large shard in the window. Jason refused to look inside.

Oh God, what happened here? He looked down, and he stared in horror. The mugger's knife was in his left hand, his own knife in his right. There was blood on both blades... "No." he stated, shaking. He looked around. People were staring at him, their mouths open. Others were running. There was screaming. "No!" he screamed. "I didn't-" The cops! "I killed-" I have to get out of here! What have I done? This can't be happening! He screamed and threw the knives away, spun, his mind racing, his heart pounding. No!

Jason ran.

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The city was a blur of grays and shadow as Jason ran. His feet slapped into asphalt, concrete, and cobblestone in turn, moving through the city in steady mark time. The snow sprayed with each impact, blasting away in a wave of white powder that hung in a cloud behind him. Flakes fell from the darkened skies, stinging his face and covering his tracks in a wall of winter wonder. But Jason did not notice the ironic beauty surrounding him, for his mind was focussed on the blood on his hands, figurative and real. He looked to the sky, his breath steaming before him. Why? But there was no answer from the harsh and serene skies, and his gaze returned to the dark reality before him.

He reached a chain link fence blocking a back alley, and he hit it at a run, scrambling five feet up, pulling over, and dropping over the other side. His knees bent with the impact, and he sprang forward, not slowing in the slightest bit. The neon lights of the city glowed around corners and in the distance, the downtown lights shined in glistening glory. But Jason stayed to the dark corners, to skirt about the city center in favor of the warehouse district. His knees were aching from the run, and from tens of walls climbed and ledges vaulted. His breath came in rapid order, and his senses were tuned fiercely. A dog barked, and he ducked into another alley.

How did it come to this? Why did I do this? He felt a tear fall from his eyes, freeze to his face. Who would have thought I could kill? That I could murder? How could I have done this? He let out a ragged cry, a strained beg for help, a plea to the silent heavens. I'm not a bad man! I want to help! It was self defense! But there were too many bodies, the street had become a charnel house. I killed them!

Jason's knees gave out under the last thought, and he crashed into the gravel alley. He tumbled into the stones and rolled, coming to rest lying face down in the dirt. "Why?" he screamed. "Why did this happen?" His fist pounded into the stone, and he felt the burn. Why did I do this? He rose to his feet, dirt and tears on his face, his pants torn and jacket scraped, but the cold no longer bothered him, compared to the burning of the cuts. Blindly, he ran into the freight yards, his past flashing before him.

Private, religious school. Balanced family. Good friends. High school was a nice public school, away from the run down city schools. I was on the track team, wasn't I? Yeah, I was. And drama for a year, but I stunk at that. The ground flashed beneath his pounding feet. Good grades, but not outstanding. In the summers, I worked at a computer club store and volunteered on Church Mission Trips. I started driving in sophomore year, and I've never even gotten a ticket! He was between the train yards now, dodging the spikes and planks, never breaking stride. Went to some concerts, had some parties. He was under a water tower, it's dark form blotting the sky. Flipped the principals car senior year, never got caught. Is that what this is? Bad Karma? He laughed hysterically amid his stifled mumbling apologies. Something changed in college. But that was apathy, not murder! What is wrong with me? Why did I kill them? I couldn't have! It's not me! It was someone else!

"It wasn't me!" he bellowed to the empty yards and crates, slowing to turn and declare his innocence to the world. The echoes of his fevered cry returned to him in mocking half-tones. It was me. I did it! He glanced up, the ore docks held against the glow of the moon through the clouds, their grid casting onto his solitary form. He stared at the contrast of bone white light on blackened wrought iron, and his resolve was clear. I have to end this.

He grabbed the first ladder rung with one of his cut hands, and he pulled himself up, into the cold air. One hand over the other, he climbed the ladder, inside of the safety cage. The light glinted through the crossed beams of the elevated railway and the bars of the ladder, lines of dark and light that played on his pained face. Higher still, he climbed the works. The ore dock was designed so that trains would pull onto them, then drop ore down the the house-sized shutes into the weighter freighters on the sea. Tonight, they would drop another cargo. Jason pulled himself onto the top of the docks.

From here, he could see everything. The lights of the city and the glow of the moon cast down onto the glistening snow, and Jason turned about to see the city one last time. The downtown glowed in never-sleeping grandeur, the suburbs slumbered peacefully. A party could be heard from the east, on the campus, pounding music and flashing lights. There were sirens in the city, but they were far away. You won't find me there. Jason turned, looked towards home, towards the northern residential areas. He knew he couldn't see, but there were surely lights on, waiting to hear from him. It's better this way. They'd be mocked for my crime. How could I?

He turned away, the tears streaming again, and he placed one foot in front of the other, walking the dock as a plank. He stepped between the crossbars of the tracks, his form cut against the snowy backdrop. I have sinned, and this is my only repentance. Another meter, the end of the dock was quite clear now against the glittering icy sea. Far out to sea, a lighthouse swung around, flashing it with it's beam. A buouy bobbed amid the flows. Jason walked.

I am a failure, a criminal. I could have been so much more, but I am dirt now. He passed the utility shed. Mom, Dad, I'm sorry I couldn't be more. Friends, forgive me. I love you all. I'd do anything for you, but now, this is all I can offer... I must remove myself. He passed the track brakes, the emergency stops. Five feet now. God, I'm sorry I wasted this. He glanced again to the heavens, and he called out his last words, "So this is all I am now? So this is my life? Twenty years of nothing? Twenty years of learning and growing... and this is the end? A murderer? Is this your glorious plan? Well, I comply! I am nothing! And as nothing, I am gone!"

With a final wordless yell, Jason turned and ran the last five feet. His feet reached the air, and he fell for the icy water. The air flipped his jacket behind him, his arms closed in swan dive. He closed his eyes as the gleaming surface rushed towards him-

FLASH

Layarteb

15-11-2004, 20:52

.:. TAG .:.

Will write something up and post it.

You can check out a few of my writings in the time being:

http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=365583
http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=305127

Staggering drunks

15-11-2004, 21:02

I know its probably just me, and a flood of comments will probably attack me on this, but I just can't read ANY story which includes too many detailed names of military equipment.

Decisive Action

15-11-2004, 21:14

Please limit the length of your story to 5000 words or less

I request that the limit be expanded to 30,000 words or less... At least 25,000.... 1984 is well over 18,000 words from just the first parts, and I plan to do much more.

Layarteb

15-11-2004, 21:23

I request that the limit be expanded to 30,000 words or less... At least 25,000.... 1984 is well over 18,000 words from just the first parts, and I plan to do much more.

Bear in mind they have to read them all. 5,000 is a fine limit.

Pelican Pond

15-11-2004, 21:51

Warning Offensive to the unintelligent
by SnowCap

1 Prose is not poetry.
If you do not know
What prose is, it is
Basically a poem that
5 Does not rhyme.
Why do I hate prose?
Well, to me, it demonstrates
An extreme laziness and
Lack of talent
10 On the writer's part.
Anyone can just
Start writing about something.
It takes talent to rhyme,
While still getting
15 The point across.
Anyone who claims to be a poet
But only writes prose
Is a dipshit,
And really needs to stop
20 For all of our sakes.
Get over yourself,
You are not talented,
And no one is interested
In unrhyming poems.
25 There's just something unsettling
About poems that don't rhyme.
Why not go write
A fucking book?
Well, it takes more talent.
30 I hate prose,
And now that I have written
This unrhyming abomination
It's time to go dip
My hands into acid.

Thank you, and good night.

Layarteb

15-11-2004, 22:04

Sarzonia

15-11-2004, 22:07

Falcania

15-11-2004, 22:07

JC. For gods sake, its a bloody prose thread, not a debate.

Soi-Disant

15-11-2004, 22:09

Ive been told by college professors and by peers that I write good. So here goes what I have done so far on my nation's history. I personally think that it is a little rushed towards the end, and it skips a few days of riding a horse.

EDIT:Well, now that things have been clarified I will begin working on a new peice of literature. It may or may not be done in a while though as finals are this week.
--------------------------------------------------
The sun was high, making the day seem even hotter than it really was. There had been no relief from the sweltering heat for two months, making the ground hard and cracked. The farms that surrounded many of the cities and towns had been reduced to barren waste lands, making growing anything impossible. Dust storms from farms often enveloped the cities, making travel almost impossible. Hordes of people from the countryside had moved into the city, hoping for relief from the harsh conditions. Riots had broken out in many cities after the community kitchens ran out of food.
In the city of Gothar, a radical figure rose from the dusty streets and organized the rioters claiming the city for themselves, creating their own government and claiming that they were a separate nation. As news of Gothar’s secession spread throughout the country side, many other radical groups began taking over the towns and cities of the planet. Soon the entire nation of Soi-Disant had been split into twenty-three separate tribes.
The nation stayed this way for almost one hundred years. However, in the year 98 P.S. (Post Separation) the descendant of the last ruler of Soi-Disant came to power in Lataro, the smallest tribal nation of all the nations. This man was Erik Coron, later known as Erik the Red. This is the story of how he and his small army of only two thousand men, set out to reunify Soi-Disant.

Erik stood outside his modest palace, a two story building that set on top of a small hill. The large mortar between the large stones had began to chip away, in some places the stones had fallen from their place, showing the wood frame and the straw used to insulate the building. He looked at the small city that lay before him. Compared to the rest of the city, his palace looked like the palace his forefathers had built. Most of the city was constructed of pieces of rusty metal, hastily nailed onto pieces of scrap wood. Most roofs were nothing more than a few pieces of wood covered in straw. There were a few stone buildings left however, but these were either unfit to live in or were taken over by the elite upper class citizens.
Erik sighed as he thought back to the days before his father had died from heart parasites. He remembered seeing his father stand in the same spot he was and watch the sun slowly rise over the city. He often watched his father, always wondering how he could stand seeing the poor excuse for civilization that his great-grandfather had built after the Great Uprising. Erik often looked at the maps of the surrounding tribes and daydreaming about how he would lead his father’s armies into victoriously into Lataro’s neighbors, and eventually across the globe, reuniting the planet under the same banner. Erik would often sit in on his father’s meetings with his generals, listening with earnest to everything they had to say. It was in this way that Erik turned into one of Lataro’s finest military minds. He remembered his first command. He had just turned eighteen and a riot had broken out in the town of Ilk. Erik volunteered for the mission, and soon after he found himself in charge of thirty of his father’s soldiers. As he entered the town of barely two hundred people, he was greeted with a volley of arrows, two of which lodged themselves into his shoulder, knocking him off of his horse. Two of his men pulled him to safety as the rest charged into town. Erik heard the sounds of metal hitting metal and the bloodcurdling screams that were only associated with death. The battle raged on for an hour, until the last of the rioters were forced into submission. Erik lost nearly half of his troop, but he had won his first battle. When he returned to his father he was greeted with cheers and a great celebration was held in his honor, even though he knew he was not responsible for winning the battle.
Erik turned and walked back into the palace, passing two guards that were stationed at the doors. He quickly walked into his office and stared at a large map of the planet that covered an entire wall of his office. He looked at a small piece of land across the River Ilk. He sighed as he made his way towards his desk; he called for one of his servants. In less than a minute a child of only thirteen years ran into the room, saluting Erik.
Erik looked at the boy, disgusted with the fact that the economy of his tribal nation forced its men and women to sell their children to the few factories and farms in the area. He looked at the boy and began to speak; “Go and find the generals of my armies,” he ordered. The boy saluted Erik and left, running as fast as he could. A few seconds later Erik heard a loud crash that came from the hall. He stood up and quickly ran into the hall to see what had happened. Once into the hall he saw shards of glass and porcelain covered the floor. He also saw the boy that he had sent to gather his generals. Another servant, this one quite a bit older, was yelling at the boy, hitting him as he screamed into his ear. Erik slowly made his way through the broken glass stopping just a few feet from the boy. He cleared his throat, catching the man’s attention.
The man stood straight up and looking at the boy coldly began explaining himself. “Your highness, this worm ran into me as I was bringing you your morning tea. What do you wish I do with him?”
Erik stared into the man’s eyes, then into the boy’s. The boy’s eyes were bloodshot and filled with tears. Erik reached his hand out to the boy, helping him to his feet. He then turned to the man and in a strict and commanding voice, he replied, “The boy was given an assignment by me, an assignment which you interrupted with your impotence. You will clean up this mess and I will deal with you later.” Erik stared into the man’s eyes which were now full of fear. Erik would do nothing to this man, but he wanted him to feel the same fear this boy had. The man bowed and quickly stooped over and began picking up the pieces of glass. Erik ushered the boy back into his office, shutting the door as they entered.
“What is your name little one?” Erik asked as he turned to face the boy.
“M-my name suh?” The boy’s voice trembled as he spoke. He waited for Erik to say something but when he did not, he continued, “M-my name is Chip sire.” The boy glanced at Erik’s face but quickly turned his gaze back towards the floor.
Erik shook his head and smiled. “Well Chip, I believe you were given an errand.” The boy looked up as Erik spoke and nodded his head slightly, then quickly running out the door to finish his task.
Erik slowly closed the large oaken doors behind Chip and slowly walked to his chair at the head of a large table covered with another large map of the country. Several minutes later, the giant doors opened and seven of his most gifted soldiers walked into the room, each taking their seat at the table. Each man’s appearance differed from the others, as did their beliefs. There was Ptomley who, at age seventy-one, was the oldest, yet most cunning and brilliant of the seven generals. Orland was the next oldest at thirty-six, but looked as if he were twenty years older. Gregari, Wellsten, Olando and David were each around the age of thirty and each had about the same military experience. Finally there was Kile, who at the age of nineteen had already seen countless battles and had distinguished himself from the rest of the commanders by being extremely radical in his thinking. All seven men had been called together to discuss the upcoming invasions of their neighbors, that were scheduled to take place simultaneously. After each of the men had finally settled in, Erik stood up and addressed his generals.

“Gentlemen, as you all have probably come to figure out, we are all here today to discuss our plans to invade the three tribes that surround us. And as you all know by now, these attacks will take place simultaneously. I realize that this will severely stretch our resources and our ability to wage an effective war, but as we have discussed many times before, this is the only way we can attack each and still maintain the element of surprise. This meeting has been called for you to voice your thoughts on the plan, so a gentlemen, the floor is yours.” With that Erik sat back down into his chair leaning back a bit. He looked around the table at each of the men, knowing that this silence would not last, as each of these seven men were very outspoken and would make his voice be heard no matter what the cost.

“Ehem,” Ptomley coughed as he stood from his chair. “Your highness, this plan might work, but what about the tribes that share a border with the three we are invading? Surely they would not allow us to expand our lands outward without action.”

Erik sat up; he had been expecting this question and was well prepared to answer it. “My friend, I have been sending ambassadors to each of the countries who share a border with the three that we are invading, and each has given us their word that they will not take any action against us when we launch our attack. In fact, several of them have stated that they will pledge their support and loyalty to me when we succeed in conquering these lands. Fore you see I did not choose the time to attack without knowledge of the current situations throughout the tribes. The three tribes we are conquering, as you all know, have formed an alliance with one another to ward off any potential invasion by us and their neighbors feel very threatened with this alliance. They are fearful that they may attempt to expand into their lands.”

Ptomley looked at the map on the wall, then back at Erik not saying anything. Although Ptomley had his objections, he knew that pressing the issue any further would only lead to needless bloodshed, including his own. Although Erik was a caring ruler, he was very easy to upset and would slaughter entire legions of men if their commander questioned his decisions. The silence was broken by a young servant rushed into the room, a report flailing in his hand. He quickly ran to Erik and handed him the dispatch and stood upright, waiting for Erik’s next command. Erik read over the piece of paper, and after reading it once, reread it, not believing what it said. He slowly rose his head up to look at the seven men sitting before him. He slowly motioned for the servant to leave and once the doors had closed, a smile crept onto Erik’s face. Kile looked into Erik’s eyes and very solemnly asked; “What? What has happened?”

Erik’s smile broadened as he opened his mouth to speak. He could hardly contain himself as he read the report out loud:

Urgent!
Report from the Western and Southern Fronts:

Thousands of enemy troops have defeated border defenses and are now making their way towards the capital from both Isran and Gorham. Reports from Eastern front report a large force has built up along the southern border, invasion imminent. Two invading armies seem to be headed towards capital, estimated time of arrival, three days.

Request immediate plans of action as to provide an efficient defense. All men can do now is delaying actions, we are outnumbered almost four to one. Please send help.

The room was suddenly quite. Each of the seven men sitting at the table was speechless, their faces, however, said more than words ever could. Each man looked as if he had just seen their own deaths. Their eyes were wide and full of dread, yet not one of them spoke. They knew what the penalty was for insubordination. Erik looked around the table, noting each man’s facial expression, seeing the fear that hung over their heads. Finally he began to speak once more: “My friends, this is what we have been waiting for. Now instead of having to explain ourselves to the rest of the tribes, we have an excuse to invade these fools. Yet, your faces are long and your eyes show the fear that each of you have. But I do not see why you are so fearful; fore this is a most glorious day. Today all the years of training and all the Euliks we spent on our army will finally be put to good use. Yes, today is a glorious day indeed.”

The seven men slowly stood up, and in a show of respect bowed, waiting for their orders.

“Ptomley, Wellston,” Erik said while pointing to a small town on the map, “this is where we will stop the northern invasion forces. I want you to make them pay for ever inch of ground they take and every inch of ground they have taken. Kile, you shall stay with me and we shall ride to the Eastern front to send the infidels to their death. The rest of you go to your armies and stop the invaders at all costs, then drive them back into the countries they came from and do not stop until you have been given complete control.”

All seven men except Kile rose and walked out of the room, each dreading the upcoming battles. Erik opened a closet that was situated in a corner and stepped back as he looked inside it. Inside was his black armor. Made especially for him, the armor was completely dark with nothing more than a blue trim around the midsection and the crest of Soi-Disant. He called for his servants to come and assist him with putting the armor on him.

On the Eastern Front…

It had been raining for almost two days straight making the ground around the main force slippery and sticky. Markus Trent looked across an open field to the wooded hills that were the unofficial border of the two nations. He had been assigned to a group of twenty other horsemen who were to go into the woods to perform raids on some of the small villages across the border. Now he was beginning to wish he was still a foot soldier. Each man in the group had been stripped of all heavy armor, and was only allowed to carry his sword and bow and arrows that were strapped across the backs of each man. The order to move came sooner than Markus thought. He figured that they would wait until it was completely dark, but the day had not yet given way to the night. Perhaps the clouds made it dark enough to prevent being seen.

The sound of hooves hitting the soft ground was all the Markus could hear until they entered the forest where every step seemed to make more noise than a flute. Suddenly the order to stop was given and Markus looked down into a small valley where a small farm community sat. It looked as if the village was lightly guarded but night had crept up quickly and the clouds blocked out any light the moon would have given. The only light was the few torches still burning in the streets. Markus heard the sound of swords being unsheathed. Knowing that this meant they were going to charge the town, he quickly unsheathed his sword. Suddenly several men began racing down the hill on their horses, with more following suite. Markus quickly kicked his horse, and began the short ride into the village.

In the village a sentry heard the sound of hooves and raised the alarm, sending several men with bows into the street. When the first horsemen were in range the archers let loose a volley, sending one horse, along with its rider, tumbling down the hill. The rest of the riders quickly entered within range of the archers, but their earlier success was short lived as the riders reached them before they could get off another shot. Markus was riding right at one of the archers, and with his sword raised he rode toward the man, quickly letting the sword slice into the man’s face as he rode by. All around him, the sound of metal hitting metal and the last screams of men were all that could be heard.

By the time the all the guards in the town had been dealt with the citizens of the town had entered the streets to see what was happening. The horsemen began riding through the streets, attacking any person who was foolish enough to step out of their huts. Markus was stopped in the middle of the village, not believing what was unfolding before him. Everywhere he looked men, women and children were being cut down by the swords of his fellow country men. To the right of him, a young woman was being raped by three men whom Markus did not know. Her screams cut through Markus’ head and made his hair stand on end. Somewhere to his left a large fire suddenly shot up through the roofs of several huts. The raid only took an hour, but by the next morning, every man, woman, and child had been killed and every building had been fired, leaving no building standing.

Layarteb

15-11-2004, 22:09

Ah, yes. The poetry vs. prose debate. Not to be confused with the recent hullabaloo over print vs. broadcast in the journalism world.

I'll say what I've said all along about both: They each involve different skill sets and require different strengths for their success. I don't think either one is better than the other.

I've written both poetry and prose; plus I'm a print journalist who's appeared on radio. To me, it's six in one hand and half a dozen in the other.

I agree I just loathe when those who write poetry think that poetry is the greatest thing on Earth. Both are equally difficult and I've done both, I just prefer prose honestly because I can be more creative, use more imagry, and do some crazy things. I do say though print v. broadcast, LOL, I prefer print but its the same thing as broadcast.

Sarzonia

15-11-2004, 22:25

I agree I just loathe when those who write poetry think that poetry is the greatest thing on Earth. Both are equally difficult and I've done both, I just prefer prose honestly because I can be more creative, use more imagry, and do some crazy things. I do say though print v. broadcast, LOL, I prefer print but its the same thing as broadcast.Not quite.

Broadcast journalists often have to sift through tremendous piles of information and try to reduce those piles into something that 1) gets the idea across and 2) does so in a quick to comprehend manner. They often have to do that in a matter of minutes, especially when a major court case gets handed down and they have to sift through a judge's opinion to get the main points from it.

Print journalists have a different challenge. They have to grab a reader's attention and keep it, but they have to get the essential information to the reader in the lead paragraph so that someone who doesn't have time to read the entire paper can get the information they need from the first paragraph. They get hours to decipher infromation that broadcast journalists have to figure out in minutes, but they have a much different set of circumstances to overcome and write a story that's informative enough for the reader to find out what happened and engaging enough for the reader to want to read more.

I used to work for The Diamondback (the student newspaper at the University of Maryland) and I saw first hand some of the tensions between print and broadcast MAJORS. So there's definitely a rivalry between the two types of journalism.

I prefer print because I love to write and I love to read, but I am most likely biased in that regard. lol

Generic empire

16-11-2004, 00:03

It may be my uber-enormous ego talking, but I think i'm a pretty good writer. Here are a couple of my best threads in my oppinion, with specific posts within said threads:

http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=354222&page=1

1st post and 10th post are my personal favorites. If you want it I can give you the rest of the story in solid form, as in without everyone else's posts.

Here's another one I like.

Warning: not for younger audiences. Keep the kids away from this one.

Whole thread:

http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=347620&page=1&pp=15

Parts of a particular story within the story:

http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=6763941&postcount=32
http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=6769733&postcount=55
http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=6770656&postcount=61

And the final coup de Gras. My all time favorite post of my entire NS experience, posted here in full:

Edemskoi saw the figure on the hill move, as if in pain. His decoy had worked. He looked around. The Azeris were still. No, one was moving slightly. It was Asaf. Edemskoi crawled over to him as his blood soaked the ground. Asaf gasped slowly and was overtaken by a spasm. Then he lay still, a bullethole in his head. Edemskoi reached into the man's pockets and removed a wallet and some papers. He then picked up an Ak-47 on the ground next to Asaf's corpse. Edemskoi let out a growl. This was not the way for a man to die, hunted like an animal in the desert. His eyes glared. The night was still, but there was a thundering in the Generian's heart as rage boiled over inside him. Edemskoi got up and darted back at an angle towards the attacker, his movements quick, careful, deliberate. This was not how a man fought. Unbeknownst to the murderer there was now another man who wanted blood in the cold, cold, Azeri night.

Edemskoi stalked through the rocks, watching the shadow that had taken the life of his newfound brother. The moves were predictable, exactly as Edemskoi had hoped. The figure began moving towards the corpses, in pursuit of the one escapee. Edemskoi closed in behind. The man's head darted, sensing something, and then turned back to its prey, however the hunter's prey was behind him now. Edemskoi moved along a small ridge, parallel the other man. The first man approached the bodies, bending to check for footprints. Edemskoi tensed, readying himself. The man stood up, sniffing the cold night air, trying to pick up a scent. Edemskoi sprung, landing a few feet behind the man.

The man turned in shock to catch the wraith rising slowly in a patch of clear moonlight. The ghost wore a long black coat, had lengthy dark hair, and wore a pair of dark sunglasses. The creature's skin shone brightly in the natural light. The sniper reached for a sidearm, but before his arm was halfway there, the phantom was on top of him, the rifle knocked aside and the sidearm in his hand. The sniper lay shivering on the cold sand staring at the creature, who grew taller in the shadow. As the beast approached, the moonlight seemed to follow him, continuing to bathe him in a fluorescent glow. No matter how bright the light was, however, his features never seemed to discern themselves. A bead of sweat ran down the sniper's forehead in the cold air. He whimpered something that sounded like a prayer as the luminescent shadow glided closer. When it stood towering above him it began to move its face towards his. The beast's face was right in front of the sniper's now, and yet he still could not make out the features. A hand made entirely of night reached up tot he being's face and removed the dark sunglasses. At this moment the man's face was as clear as day, the steely eyes piercing the soul of the murderer. The white face opened its red lips and exhaled a cloud of steam, hot in the bitter cold air. The face held up a small steel cross and began to say a prayer. Although he spoke clear as day, Ruslan heard none of the words. The face reached into its pocket and revealed an ornat wooden handle. It flipped a switch and a blade sprang out with a flash. The sniper looked at his face in the blade, and beheld pure terror, but not on the face of one of his victims. This time on his own figure. The ghost's shadowy hand shot out and grabbed the hand of its victim. A tremor shot through Ruslin's body. The knife flew through the air, and a finger lay on the sandy ground, the blood spreading through the palpable moonlight. The sniper let out a sound quickly, not quite a scream. The ghost did the same to the rest of the man's fingers, the knife flashing quickly here and there. Then it moved up his hands and arms, slicing deep wounds and eternally scarring the flesh. The knife moved higher, to his ear. With one quick motion, his ear joined the limbs on the Azeri sand. The knife moved again, poised on his forehead above his nose. It moved down, slicing the nose in two. More slices across the cheeks and forehead. More scarring. The knife bypassed the man's eyes. They would serve as windows for the man to see the reactions of people towards his deformity. The wraith tore open the man's shirt and with smooth strokes, as if with a brush he wrote this simply:

"Bear witness"

Into the shadows he vanished, the wraith. Into the pure, darkest night, over the border into Russia, Leaving the man in his flight.

Acirema Detinu

16-11-2004, 00:40

Hey yall! All postive and negative feedback is appreciated! Post comments here or email me at kewl_kat_kay@yahoo.com

Vampires

Shunned into darkness, hiding, waiting
Lurking in shadows, forever creeping
The permanence of a vampire

Forever thirsty, forever starving
Searching for prey, something to keep them existing
The permanence of a vampire

Forever in darkness, never feeling the warmth of the sun
Flesh as cold as ice, blood that doesn’t run
The permanence of a vampire

Cannot suffocate, cannot breathe air
No one around them to care
The permanence of a vampire

Forever being forced to stand alone
Millions of sins for which to atone
The permanence of a vampire

Forever not being able to be alive
Forever not being able to die
The permanence of a vampire

Untimely End

I was walking down the street
Unaware of the untimely end, I was about to meet
A stranger appears from the darkness
On his face is a charade of kindness

As I walk closer his face transforms
The deformed face of cruelty and death appears
City lights dim, hiding everything safe and warm
Drawn into a trance, I am deprived of all fear

He opens his mouth and out springs fangs
He bites my neck; all I feel is a slight pang
My heart stops beating, I try to fight
It's too late. I'm already a creature of the night

Untitled

Why are we named?
Is it to separate the wild from the tamed?
Are we special because we build cities?
What about ants, whom build colonies?
Are we special because we have marvelous brains?
How can we be thought wise, while war and poverty reigns?
Are we special because we grieve those who die?
How many times though have I heard a cat’s mournful cry?
Who are we to decide what is wild or tame?
Who are we to decide whether an animal deserves a name?
In the end, humans are no better then any beast
From whom, so many of us feast

Crazed Marines

16-11-2004, 00:50

This isprobably the extent of my writing abilities.

http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=7476995&postcount=1

The Evil Overlord

16-11-2004, 00:58

Here's a post I made from the beginning of my on-going troubles with Revalen. The thread is called, "The First Embers".

*****

The Raschid-II IFV sighed to a halt, and Juan Escobar followed his squad mates out into the steamy tropical dawn. Rapid shots from some foreign-made weapon were sounding in the near distance, but the immediate area was surreally quiet for a battlefield.

Juan doubled left to cover his section of the squad's perimeter. He stumbled slightly when the forward 30mm of Hellraiser- the vehicle that had carried the squad- let loose a couple of bursts into the city. Juan cursed silently and rolled into position. His main worry at the moment was that he really needed to take a piss.

He checked the immediate area for threats over the sights of his Intruder battle rifle.
A street scene from Hell: bullet-spattered buildings, shattered glass and concrete, demolished civilian vehicles of an unfamiliar type. Juan checked the upper floors of the obviously residential district's buildings in his area of responsibility for movement, then tabbed the 'transmit' key without speaking.

Corporal Duwayo spoke on the squad push. "Okay, Children, here's the plan. About three klicks due east of here is the old EOE concession compound. There's a battalion of Revalen Marines holed up there, trapped by the Mongols. We're gonna bust 'em out."

There was dead silence for several seconds, followed by a babble of conversation. Juan didn't join in, though he was as confused as the others. "I thought we were fighting the Snoops," he thought. "Aren't they the ones backing the Mongols?"

The Corporal cut across the chatter. "Shut it off! I wasn't opening a goddamned debate, I was passing along the orders from Captain Modoc. Does anyone have anything useful to say?"

Superior Private Wyland chimed in. "Just us, or does the rest of the company get a share in the glory?" Juan smiled at the scorn in her voice. Gloria Wyland was Juan's personal proof of why it was good to have two sexes. Too bad she didn't even know he existed.

Duwayo laughed on the circuit. "The rest of the platoon will be on parallel courses through the city to the target zone." A red light flashed in Juan's visor, and he grabbed his display unit attached to his rifle sling. A small map appeared. A narrow red line ran through the map- the route Juan's squad would be taking. Four green lines- two on each side of the red one- indicated the tracks of the other squads.

"You all will notice that we risk hitting some of our own in just about any direction. To make sure we don't do that, the Durendals will start artillery prep in five mikes. Battery five, all antipersonnel. A final barrage will be smoke.

"Once the hogs start shooting, everyone will damp their IR signature and put on their spookeyes- set for active IR." Juan nodded soberly. The Jaguar combat armor the EOE troopers wore was equipped with a CO2 canister that would cool their infrared signature by several degrees. With smoke blinding the optical range, the squad should be able to tell friend from foe. The Mongols didn't have sophisticated technology to match it, and their soldiers would be mostly blind.

"Anything else?" No one answered the Corporal's question. Juan took the opportunity to shift an additional drum of 11.5mm ammo from his pack to the front of his web gear. The extra canteen it replaced went into the pack. Each drum held 100 rounds, and Juan now had four extra magazines ready to hand. This would normally be an extreme load, but all of the Dominion soldiers had received booster injections of FTS before sailing from Kaligrad. It was still a punishing burden, but more manageable.

The sky began to howl behind Juan, and he scrunched a little lower next to the IFV. He'd heard stories from some of the older troopers about the fighting in This Oughta Do. All it took was some redleg transposing a number or dropping a decimal point and one of the artillery rounds shaking the air above him would fall short. The Corporal's voice came back. "All right, children. Hit your chillers."

Juan rolled over and made sure the tiny canister was securely fastened, and then hit the activation button. He rolled back into position and looked down the street as a bunch of Mongols ran into the street a hundred meters ahead. He called a warning and shifted his muzzle to bear on the dozen or so wogs just as a series of small pops sounded from overhead.

A 170mm artillery shell reached it's programmed destination and set off the precursor charges. Thirty or so sub munitions were blasted forward in a cone along the shell's original ballistic track. With the carrier shell deploying at 50 meters altitude, the 'footprint' covered by the sub munitions was on the order of 100 meters across. The buildings along the street reduced the splash area still more.

A continuous rippling blast shook the ground as the sub munitions hit, then detonated a tenth of a second later- just long enough for the fragmentation explosives to bounce a meter or so into the air. The Mongols seemed to melt in the roar of flame and shrapnel rather than disintegrate. Juan stared at the scene in shock for a moment, then lowered his head again.

More shells swept the streets ahead of him. The ground and the sky shrieked in unison for what seemed to Juan an eternity. The roaring of the sky stopped abruptly, and Juan looked up to see the city ahead of him suddenly vanish in a sea of grey smoke.

"Spookeyes on, children." Duwayo's calm voice came across the squad push like a splash of ice water, jerking Juan out of his reverie with a start. "Set your comms on preset 4, mind your targets, and let's get moving. I got a hot date tonight, and you mopes had better not make me late."

Juan thumbed his Night Vision Goggles- called spookeyes by most troopers- down and hit the button twice to set it on 'active' IR. The smoke in front of him opened up into a cartoon negative rendering of the street. He stared over his rifle sights until Senior Private Hayes stepped into view. Juan stood unsteadily, then followed Hayes into the grey city.

The first hundred meters were fairly calm. Juan was number four in his five-man section. This put him behind Hayes and Nguyen and on the left side of the rear trio. Bonilla had the right side, and Kuryova had the Marauder grenade launcher in the center.

Juan's section moved swiftly down the street, keeping close to the buildings on the right side. Juan swallowed hard as the group passed a splash of brightness on the street that was all that remained of the Mongols who'd died in the artillery prep.

A snarl of automatic weapons fire ahead sent the section into a crouch. Hayes signaled left. Juan swallowed again, then dashed ahead at a slight angle to the rest of the section. He dropped behind a lamppost that had fallen across the street and looked over his sights toward the source of the sound. He scanned the street ahead, then raised his vision in stages to the roofs and upper floors. He spotted the Mongol position just as the machine gun opened fire again.

The gun was sited behind a shattered window on the second floor of a building 200 meters down the street. The wogs manning the gun couldn't see anything in the smoke, but the man at the trigger was sweeping the street at intervals to discourage anyone from trying to approach.

Juan shook his head in contempt, then rolled over and signaled to Senior Hayes. Hayes tapped his helmet over his ear with his left hand, telling Juan it was okay to use the radio. Juan called out, "Oscar 3-6, Oscar 3-4. Machine gun nest, 200 meters, second floor, left."

"Roger that, 3-4." Juan was amazed that Hayes could be so calm. He was certain his own voice was a terrified squeak. "Oscar 3-5, you and 3-4 move left down the street and take them out."

Private Kuryova jogged across the street and waved Juan ahead toward the target. He rolled from behind the downed aluminum pole and jogged down the sidewalk ahead of her. He heard Hayes get the rest of the section moving quietly down the other sidewalk, then started paying attention to the immediate problem. "Can't do the other man's job," he muttered to himself.

The wogs at the gun started spraying the street again. Juan lurched to his left through a shattered window to get out of the line of fire, then froze. There were six Mongols sneaking slowly into the building over the remains of the back wall.

Shaking out of the shock of surprise, Juan thumbed his Intruder to 'burst' and pulled the trigger. He immediately jumped to his right- to avoid return fire and clear the window for Kuryova. He fired again, two of the wogs were down, one was firing blindly into the thinning smoke at the far wall, but there was no sign of the others. He aimed carefully and squeezed off a burst at the panicky gunman, who slumped over the broken wall.

Kuryova followed the barrel of her weapon into the room through the window and immediately flattened against the wall to the right of the opening. She held up a hand and waved it across her face. She hadn't seen anything.

Juan held up his left hand with three fingers up, then turned it over so the fingers were down, then waved the hand in front of his face. 3 down, 3 up. I don't know where they are.

Kuryova nodded, then waved Juan toward the ruined back wall. He carefully stepped over the rubble, sweeping the area to his left with the muzzle of his rifle. He saw a hint of movement in the alley outside the room and froze. He crouched low and waved a hand to Kuryova. He pointed a fist toward the alley and motioned down.

Kuryova shifted so a fallen roof beam was between her and the alley, then poked the barrel of her grenade launcher around it. She fired down the alley to Juan's right, then twitched the muzzle and fired again to the left. The 30mm fragmentation grenades hit the far side of the alley and exploded a half-second apart.

As soon as the second grenade went off, Juan dove over the ruined wall into the alley and rolled against the wall of the building on the other side. He was facing to Kuryova's left, so he spun the two wogs there down in a spray of blood with two bursts. He was turning to face the other way when the crackle of fire from the remaining Mongol spit down the alley toward him. He felt a sledgehammer hit him in the side and tumbled into the pile of garbage behind him. He twisted as he fell and fired blindly toward the shooter. Kuryova leaned over the wall and fired the remaining three rounds in her magazine down the alley, then dropped back behind the wall to re-load.

Juan rolled free of the garbage pile and looked over his sights down the alley. Nothing. No shooter, no corpse. He rose clumsily to his feet and stepped forward to look farther. Aside from debris and garbage, the alley was empty. He turned and motioned Kuryova to follow as he started down the alley toward the machine gun nest.

Kuryova stopped him by grabbing his arm. "Juan, wait." She lifted his left arm and checked his armor for penetration, turning him completely around. She laughed and pointed at one of the ammo drums on Juan's web gear. Two bullets from the Mongol's burst had shattered the drum, and individual rounds were dropping out onto the ground. Patting Juan on the shoulder, she pointed him down the alley again. Juan felt relieved, but couldn't figure out why for a moment. Then he started laughing quietly. "How do you tell your partner that you feel better because you've pissed yourself?"

At the end of the alley, Juan peered around the corner at the target building. There were three Mongols moving carefully down the alley toward him, and the machine gun nest on the second floor was firing steadily down the street. Juan leaned his Intruder carefully around the corner and squeezed off a burst. The first wog took all three shots in his chest and flopped backwards. The body of the first knocked down the second Mongol, but the last one was pretty good. His burst of answering fire tore up the bricks in front of Juan's helmet before Juan's second burst splattered the man's head across the wall behind him. The second Mongol was still trying to pull out from under his dead companion when Juan fired a third time.

Kuryova followed Juan around the corner and looked up at the second floor. She signaled Juan to wait and stepped carefully toward the street. Juan watched her lean to her right and aim the Marauder upward, then fire three times.

As soon as the first grenade fired, Juan leaped across the alley and into the doorway from which the Mongols had emerged. A staircase went straight up and turned left, and a closed door opened into the ground floor. Juan smashed his armored shoulder into the door and followed it into the room. The room was full of wounded Mongols, many of whom were reaching for weapons. Juan sprayed bursts of fire into the room as he backed out the doorway, knocking several of the wogs down.

His back hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs as Kuryova pointed her launcher into the room and fired twice. The small fragmentation grenades splattered blood and gore across the small room in waves of red foam, and the blasts knocked Juan back against the wall. He slumped to the floor, stunned for a moment. He shook his head clear and rose to his feet, his rifle muzzle aiming uncertainly around the room. All of the Mongols seemed to be down. He wobbled out onto the alley and found Kuryova slamming a new magazine into her launcher. She stepped back and fired two more rounds up into the second floor windows, then waved Juan toward the stairs.

Feeling better with each step, Juan jogged up the stairs and paused at the landing. Risking a quick glance around the corner, he saw a Mongol standing at the top of the stairs with an assault rifle. The Mongol fired blindly down the stairs, chewing up the woodwork all around. Juan pointed his rifle around the corner without looking and fired a burst in return. The 'thump' of the wog slumping to the stairs brought Juan back around the corner over the barrel of his weapon. The fire from the machine gun had stopped. He crept carefully up the stairs and swept the room above with three bursts of fire, dropping back immediately after each one in case of return fire.

Kuryova stepped up beside him and fired the last three rounds from her magazine into the room, then ducked back around the corner. Juan followed her just as the grenades burst, filling the room and the top of the stairs with shrapnel.

Seconds later, Juan was checking the corpses of the wog gun crew as Kuryova called in. "Oscar 3-6, Oscar 3-5. Target is negated."

Juan smiled weakly as the Senior Private's voice crackled back. "Roger, 3-5. Friendly vehicles coming in 6 mikes. We got the ground level secured. Good job."

Several eternities later, with fresh ammo and chiller canisters from the following Hellraiser, Juan's section eased around the corner of a shattered hotel and looked across a large open square at a walled compound. The buildings facing the compound had all been thoroughly chewed up by small arms fire. Several hundred Mongol bodies littered the square, and the walls of the compound looked like they'd taken several RPG hits.

Hayes motioned his people back from the edge of the square and called in on the platoon push. "Oscar Six Actual, Oscar 3-6. We're at Phase Line Cobra."

A couple of minutes later, Hayes got back on the squad push. "Children, we have arrived. El-tee says we're to hold for the rest of the company in this nice comfy hotel here. Our Revalen brethren are holding up across the square, and there are lots of unfriendlies about."

Juan stood up and slipped into the hotel through a side window. The rest of the section followed suit. Juan and Kuryova checked to make sure the basement was clear before reporting to the section leader.

"Okay, children. We'll hold this lower floor here. Once the rest of the platoon gets here, we'll turn security over to 4th squad and start working our way through the buildings to the left of the square."

An hour later, Juan's section was working through the third building left of the hotel when the Mongols counterattacked. What sounded to Juan like every AK-47 in the world going off at once greeted them as Hayes opened the door into the ground floor. The Senior Private was hurled back into the alley in a spray of red, knocking Nguyen down behind him. Juan dropped to one knee and fired into the open doorway as Kuryova and Bonilla grabbed the others and hauled them out of the line of fire. Just before reaching the shelter of the restaurant behind them, an RPG snarled at them from down the alley toward the square.

Juan dove for cover as the rocket-propelled grenade soared down the alley and hit the ground at Bonilla's feet. The explosion ripped the trooper apart despite his armor, and Nguyen was reduced to a mass of smoking meat. Kuryova struggled dazedly to her feet, the front of her armor a smear of what was left of Hayes. Juan rolled to his feet and grabbed her before turning and pulling her back into the restaurant and onto the floor.

"Oscar Six Actual, Oscar 3-4." Juan prayed into his radio, still stunned at the sudden extinction of most of his section. "We have multiple bandits with RPGs and small arms in the department store left of the restaurant."

"Roger that, Oscar 3-4. Pull back to the hotel. Oscar 5 will cover."

Juan grabbed Kuryova and started sliding toward the back exit of the restaurant. She seemed to be in shock, and kept singing something in Russian. Juan reached out and pried the Marauder out of her right hand. He shoved Kuryova down behind an antique oven, then rose to a crouch and looked back into the alley. Several Mongols immediately opened fire, the bullets singing as they bounced off the stainless steel ovens.

Juan fired all five grenades toward the alley in less than three seconds, then dropped the launcher and grabbed Kuryova. He dragged her out of the restaurant and across the narrow alley between it and the hotel. As soon as he slammed into the hotel through the side door, the rest of the platoon started firing into the restaurant.

The Mongols working their way into the restaurant responded by firing blindly through the walls and roof at their attackers. Juan dropped Kuryova off with the medic, then grabbed an Intruder from one of the wounded and ran back to the alley side of the hotel.

Several of the Mongols had run out into the square from the restaurant, and had been shot down by the Revalen Marines in the compound. The bulk of the wogs seemed to be trying to storm the hotel through the narrow door out of the restaurant into the alley. Even though they were seriously outnumbered, the Dominion troops were easily able to keep the Mongols at bay ... for the moment.

The Platoon Sergeant came in on the platoon circuit. "Friendly armor coming into the square. Hold what you got, people."

Juan looked out through the shattered front windows and saw one of the company's Scimitar air-defense vehicles move sedately into the square. It looked a lot like the Raschid IFV Juan's squad had arrived in, but it had a large, trapezoidal spire in place of the 'people box', and there were two enormous chain guns attached to the spire.

The Scimitar stopped and the two guns rotated rapidly to the left. Several wogs who could see the vehicle started shooting their AKs at it, which had no effect, as far as Juan could see. Then the Scimitar started shooting.

Three-meter long jets of flame erupted from the rotating muzzles of the 30mm Hephaestus guns- which were normally used on the GS-9 Buccaneer ground-attack aircraft. The operator started with the restaurant. The nearly solid stream of bullets sawed completely through the front of the building, causing the half of the structure facing the square to collapse. Rotating slowly to the right, the guns kept firing, cutting gradually through the remaining buildings facing the square. When the guns finally stopped firing, all four of the buildings to the left of the hotel had completely collapsed, and there was no further return fire from the Mongols.

Juan heard a rumble from the street next to the hotel, and turned in time to see a really massive tank bellow into the square. Bullet scratches and what look like RPG hits scarred the heavy armored skirts protecting the treads. The massive tank ground across the square- going around the Scimitar- and stopped outside the walls of the Revalen compound.

The hemispherical turret rotated until the main gun was pointing down the street to the left of the collapsed buildings. The muzzle of the weapon surged backwards with a jet of flame that seemed almost liquid. The roar of the gun was nearly drowned out by the harsh crack as the projectile leaving the muzzle went supersonic. Far down the street, a loud boom followed hard on the heels of a fountain of debris rising skyward.

Juan dialed up the magnification on his borrowed rifle and looked downrange as the tank fired again. The dense projectile hit the corner of a building 300 meters away. The dust was still rising from the impact as Juan saw smoke and debris billow up from the three buildings in a line past the target building.

Firing steadily, the tank gun rapidly leveled every building facing the square or the walled compound. The tank and the Scimitar then rolled down the rubble-strewn street, firing 30mm explosive rounds in both directions.

Juan and the rest of the infantry moved out of the hotel and followed the vehicles down the street. There was no effective resistance, although one ambitious wog did manage to fire an RPG at the tank before falling apart under a hail of fire from the foot soldiers. The grenade struck the tank's cupola squarely, but did little damage to anything but the paint.

Two hours later, the Revalen Marines were evacuated onboard the IFV's that had accompanied the assault. Helicopters had removed the wounded. Juan strolled into the former EOE Oil Concession compound and stared out the second-story window at the ruins that used to be the capital city of Chongwe island.

Then he went down to find the rest of his squad and get something to eat.

Automagfreek

16-11-2004, 01:38

Hey Trez, is there a 'cut off' on this contest? I'd like to jump in but I will probably need a week or so to get something drawn up.

Present Day Comatica

16-11-2004, 02:13

I write a LOT. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.

I attempt to write books, and the following is an excerpt from one of my books. There’s a connection between my nation and the character.
---------------------------------------------------------
Comaticus gazed at his hands. There was a sickly green glow to them. But he cared not. This island was in his hands.

Comaticus withdrew his intent gaze on his hands and turned his attention to his men. The mass of them were moving across the hill, torches gleaming in the cold night, shouting needlessly at the walls of the city. What a beautiful city it was, large and expansive indeed. The buildings not owned by wealthy citizens were built of a magnificent white granite; blinding to the eyes and inspiring altogether. They crawled over the hills and stacked higher among each other, until Comaticus was sure that they ascended into the depths of the night clouds. The structures themselves radiated out their own ever-living light, accompanied by the clear and majestic moon that lived forevermore.

But Comaticus was not here to ponder it’s beauty. He was here to make it his.

Fireballs tore through the night sky; flung by the burning desire of hate and malice of the Comatic army. He had under his command over 20,000 strong, along with hundreds upon themselves catapults, moreover that gave out the circulating fireball that was Comaticus’s eyes, the power that he possessed in the palm of his hand. Fire rose from the depths of the city as the balls of white flame that Comaticus had conjured via hate and desire for power collided with all that stood in his way. Sounds of destruction met his ears, and with delight he took hold of his dark scepter, and perpetuated all that he desired. Power.

A blue, deathly mist hung in the crystal perched on the top of his instrument of evil. A fog that was unfathomable and Comaticus’s own.

He chanted, with a sick glee in his boom of a voice, a conjugation unlike nobody had witnessed. The chant’s rhythm grew faster and ever faster, to the point when nothing could be heard for miles around but Comaticus’s evil spell. A distinguishable core was now visible in the crystal, that of red and orange fire. A flaming beam of cold blue and black fire streamed from the blue mist, up to the black sky. A wave of fire overtook the heavens, and set the clouds ablaze. The clouds became indefinite fireballs, and thunder cracked the chill autumn breeze.

The lower fires grew white, and then produced a massive bolt of fire from the blazing sky. The fire bolt drove itself into the depths of the sparkling city, and erupted into a deadly blue fireball, rising, then sucked into the depths of Comaticus’s scepter. Then began the storm of the ages; where fire rains down from the heavens, and Comaticus grows to be the evil conquerer of the ages.

Automagfreek

16-11-2004, 02:30

Ah screw it, I won't have time. Here's a little NC-17 goodness for ya'll. Enjoy, some of you will remember this post from like a month or two ago.

******************

Abandon all hope, ye who enter. Death itself fears what lies behind these doors of stone.

-Inscription above the entrance to The Halls-

****

Decay had consumed the Halls. Years of dust and rot had turned the once horrific Halls of the Dead into a literal wreck. The only constant however were the thousands of dried and withered corpses that lined the walls going into each individual corridor, that and the sickening sweet stench of putrid rot. Many years had passed since the Vault of Souls was discovered, and since that day Lord Dreadfire had ordered The Halls sealed.

That was until the need for such a facility emerged yet again.

With crime and domestic unrest growing, and with the international community beginning to have it's doubts of the ferocity of AMF resolve, the need for The Halls had become very clear. An example had to be set, for the lessons once learned had been forgotten.

The mighty stone doors were thrown open, and a gust of toxic air burst from the seal that locked the mighty death chambers away from the outside world for so long. The first customers had been waiting outside The Halls, chained to the ground and periodically flogged for no reason whatsoever. A large crowd had gathered across the street from the tiny stone entryway that lead into the underground facility. Babes began to weep and the children began to cower as a sense of pure dread washed the crowd, for the first people in line for their taste of death started off into the darkness. As the last few people entered, the cold stone doors were closed and several armed Sentinels stood guard outside and kept order, telling the crowd to disperse or they will be fired upon.

As the group decended into the darkness, the executioners that came to call The Halls home began igniting the old torches that once filled the blood soaked corridors with cleansing light, and as they did so the condemned cried out in pure terror as they saw the skeletal remains of the unfortuate souls that suffered an unspeakable fate in the years past. Thousands of corpses stood frozen with a look of horror upon what was left of their faces, a silent testament to the authority that The Destroyer commanded.

The caravan rounded the first corner and walked past the holding cells. Nothing more than holes carved out of the stone walls and closed off by steel doors, the cells were once alive with the insane laughter and the pitiful cries of those that had to sit and listen to the screams of those being tortured in such a horrifying fashion. And worse, they knew they were next. But there would be no need for holding cells on this day, for the guest list was short. A few murderers and child molesters, 'twas nothing more than a small cleansing.

With great haste the executioners began strapping the condemned into the various crude and sometimes extravogant torture machines The Halls sported. The first one ready to go was a simple steel table with leather straps. Nothing special, save for the table that sit next to the metal slab. On the table sat various instruments of pain ranging from drills to hammers to blow torches. The dust and age did not affect the power tools in any way, and the first noise of torture to fill the air was that of an electrical drill with a rather large bit in it. Golf ball sized to be exact. Without so much as batting an eye, the executioner removed the shoes of the 24 year old man that he had strapped in and laid the whirling drill into the tender skin that covered the soles of the man's feet. Blood spattered and coated the executioner's shrouded face, and the sounds of unspeakable pain and agony filled the room as the drill prodded through skin, tissue, muscle, and bone alike on both feet. The blood began running freely, so the executioner knew he did not have much time. The 10 pound sledge would serve well in this case. Straight to the shin bones he went, causing fragments of bone to splinter off and fly into the air along with a generous portion of gore. With smashed legs and hole ridden feet, the dying man stapped to the table cried out to his God with tears running down his face and his fist clenched in defiance.

The executioner cocked his head and chuckled slighty, grabbing the neddle nosed pliers that lay in front of him. A small whack to the back of the man's right hand with the sledge loosened his grip but did not shatter his hand. Onto the finger nails on the right hand the executioner went, prying and pulling until the skin tore and the nails slid easily from the finger tips. While this was going on, another executioner placed the man's left hand into a container of volitile acid that began rapidly dissolving the skin and muscle, all the way down to the bones. The man's eyes widened and his pupils began to dilate, but in kicked the IV unit that was forcefully jammed into a random vein in the left arm of the man. A shot of adrenaline was administered to keep the man's suffering at a maximum, and it worked to great effect.

By this time the other victims were ready to meet their fate, and it was apparent by the attitudes of the executioners that they wanted to get this done and over with, obviously wanting to do better things than torture vermin. A woman was tied to a pike in the center of the room beneath a giant vent shaft, and she was promptly doused with gasoline and set ablaze. The stench of burning hair and skin caused even the executioners to grimace abit, and the woman thrashed and struggled about as she attempted in vain to free herself from the flames that engulfed her entire body. Her screams drowned out that of the first victim that was now dead and tossed off to the side, and this caused the other victims to break down into hysteria.

The woman's screams were outdone by that of a large industrial woodchipper, and the young man that was being fed into it slowly. He watched in absolute horror as his feet and legs were sliced into tiny portions and spat out the end of the chipper with a shower of blood and other bodily fluids. The snapping and crunching of bone could easily be heard over the wails of the condemned and the motor of the chipper. The whirling blades then caught ahold of the man's pelvis, and it was all over. In a flash he was sucked into the chipper with great speed, and the motor of the machine was bogged down slightly as it's spinning blades of death tore through the rest of the unfortunate young man.

All across the main torture facility people were meeting fates that eclipsed the fate of the one to die before them. This is what The Halls existed for, to punish the agents of evil and cleanse their souls in the stagnant waters of pain and misery. Although each soul that entered that chamber marked for death and masked for torture were brutally killed, not one of them were tossed into a place that dwarfed even The Halls....The Tomb of the Mutilated. The stone lid that sealed the enterance was illuminated by the forces that lived on the other side. It was apparent that they too lusted for fresh souls, and the demons and vile creatures of the night began drinking their fill.

*****

AMF News Update

Criminals everywhere, enemies of Automagfreek, here my words. The Halls of the Dead have been reopened yet again, and the horrors that took place there tonight are but a taste of what lies in store for those that undermine the Empire. You commit a crime, you go the The Halls. You defy the Empire, you go to The Halls. The lessons of old have been forgotten, and a refresher course has been started.

<Cut to video feed from within The Halls>

Heathens and agents of evil here me now, The Halls will soon claim your souls if you dare step out of line. That is all.

This statement was given by the Sentinel officer in charge at the world's most notorious torture facility. What we just heard were the words of Damien handed down to his officer at the site, and it is very apparent that Lord Dreadfire seeks to restablish his intolernace for crime and deception against the Excessively Armed Empire.

We will break in with more details as they emerge. This has been an AMF News update.

****

The screams began to fade out as the visitors died one by one, their broken corpses stacked in large piles or hung up on the walls. The wench that tood tied to the pike in the center of the room had finally died after being painfully extinguished then reginited several times. All that remained upon her now blackened bones were a few bits of charred flesh. The remains of the woman and the pike were tossed into one of the several large fireplaces that kept the main chamber warm.

A few people were still alive, their suffering prolonged and their death delayed for as long as possible. The smashing of hammer on bone, the slice, peel, and tear of skin, and the horrifying cries of anguish could still be heard much to the delight of the executioners. At this point they began toying with their prey, occassionally gouging them in the eyes with a flaming red hot poker, stretching their tongue foricibly with large pliers, and the like.

Arriving abit late, a pair of executioners led in a middle aged man convicted of murder and then raping the corpse. Into the chairs they strapped him, and instantly the crack and smash of breaking teeth could be heard as an executioner swung a large steel wrench at the man's face. A stream of blood poured from his mouth along with incoherent babble, and the executioners delighted in his suffering. The yanked his head back and without pause began peeling his eyelids off with needle nosed pliers and removing them with a large scalpel. He howled and wailed like the heathen dog he was, and every time he tried to blink his eyes became engulfed in blood.

The same scalpel was then used to gash the man across his midesction, and the executioners began pulling out his entrails piece by peice and setting them on a table in front of him. His slime coated guts wriggled and moved as they were removed from his body, and the man began coughing up blood and other bodily fluids. The executioners knew his time was almost up, so four of them took up the man's entrails and began pulling with great force. The condemned man reeling and shook violently as his innards gave way and soared from his belly. He looked down in horror to see his spine and the bottom of his ribcage, and with that his intestines were jammed into his mouth by the executioners. A large, thin pole was then used to stuff his throbbing entrails down his throat, and finally death came to claim the unfortunate soul.

*****

The executioner in charge of overseeing the acts of torture stepped out from the large stone doors of The Halls and looked at the crowd that was being pushed back. They suddenly grew silent as he removed his black mask and looked on with a devilish grin, his forked tongue running across his wicked teeth in an evil manner. Who's next?

The crowd then immediatly dispersed.

Present Day Comatica

16-11-2004, 02:49

^Now that's just good writing :D

Crazed Marines

16-11-2004, 03:30

looks like I lose.

Skibereen

16-11-2004, 03:47

Tag.

Izistan

16-11-2004, 03:56

I have some writing, I'll probably have it up here bythe end of the week (I have to reformat my harddrive).

Azzion

16-11-2004, 05:03

I've got something I'll post tomorrow.

Treznor

16-11-2004, 05:58

This is not about people winning or losing. This is about people writing something new and original to showcase their writing talents. That's why it's a writing challenge, not a contest.

There's no real time limit. This will go on so long as people show interest in it.

Chellis

16-11-2004, 06:51

Well, Im guessing my story will be much longer than 5k, so I will either just post snippets or none later.

Scandavian States

16-11-2004, 18:47

[I’ve always wanted someone to try to invade the Helsinki Peninsula, but I’ll settle for writing fiction for such a scenario. Not my best effort, but the best I could do on short notice.]

2nd Lt. Anders Sofia Christensen cursed to herself and tried to scrunch down further into the ground behind the trunk of a massive Giant Ironwood tree as a burst from a 25mm cannon assailed her cover. In reply one of her anti-tank teams peeked around one of their trees and popped off a pair of M99 anti-armour guided rockets, which streaked into the flank of the offending IFV. “You okay, LT?” she heard over he platoon comm.

“Madsen, what have I told you about conserving ammo?!” Sofia replied as she leaned around her tree to lob a grenade at a pair of advancing enemy soldiers. The white-painted grenade plopped into the snow and a second later exploded, raining the soldiers with lethal shrapnel.

“Glad to hear it, ma’am,” Corporal Madsen replied.

“Platoons, report in,” a voice called over the company comm. The call startled her enough that she jerked in surprise, which gave an enemy sniper a clean view to take a shot. Fortunately the bullet pinged harmlessly of the shoulder of her battle armour.

“Alpha Five, 20% casualties,” Alpha platoon had fended off a charge from an enemy battalion but it had not been without a price.

“Beta Six, 15% casualties,” Beta had been on the receiving end of two probes from another battalion before it had committed to closing with Beta, that particular fight had gone on for nearly 36 hours before the enemy broke.

“Charlie Six, 3% casualties,” Charlie platoon currently held a grove of unusually thick Giant Ironwoods, which meant that the enemy had finally given up on assaulting the center of the company and its impromptu fortress.

“Delta Four, 35% casualties, I’m requesting permission to pull out to regroup and resupply.” The fact that 1st Lieutenant Sorensen, commander of Delta platoon and her best friend from her school days, hadn’t reported in hit her like a sledgehammer. Despite the fact that Delta had been on the receiving end of several vicious assaults, it still came as a total shock.

“Delta Four, where’s Katarina?” Sofia called asked.

“Cut the chatter, Echo Six. Lt. Sorensen took a 25mm to the leg and had to be taken to the field hospital, they say she should be fine. Now report in.”

With considerable glumness she replied, “Echo Six, 10% casualties.”

“Listen up now. Delta platoon, you’re going to have to hold on just a little longer, Division has just passed down word that all units are to hold position for the next ten minutes. Apparently we’ve arranged a present for the our good enemies, and the way General Stryker tells it, it’ll be gift rapped in shiny paper and have a nice bow.” Captain Andersen said.

Almost on cue hundreds and hundreds of scramjet artillery rockets and shells streaked across the sky and blotted out the sun. Seconds later the massive booms of 155mm shells striking targets and the machine gun-like ripple of rocket submunitions could be heard from miles away. “All units,” the voice of General Stryker, commanding officer of the Helsinki Guards Army, “I have just received word from Joint Strategic Command that Imperial Marines have successfully made a flanking landing upon the forces trying to take Helsinki, the enemy rear guard is now crushed. From real-time surveillance has revealed that our little gift has broken the back of the enemy’s land-based logistics. Division commanders, please relay my orders.”

Major General Saari’s voice replaced that of General Stryker’s, “331st Armoured, our storied division will lead the counter-attack against the enemy and we will push them back into the waters from which they have come to disturb our peace. Brightest Jewel of the Empire, advance and show no mercy.”

Sarzonia

16-11-2004, 20:18

The Shark vs. the Piranha: The AMF-Sarzonia War

[OOC: This does NOT happen in the NS RP world. This is solely a submission for the challenge. It’s not intended to be used IC at all.]

President Mike Sarzo had seen enough. Lord Damien Dreadfire of Automagfreek was on a rampage and had already decimated several countries that were foolish enough to stand in his way. The feared Sentinels destroyed everything in their path in smaller countries throughout the world. It seemed that no one was going to step up to try to stop him from total world domination.

Sarzo huddled in the situation room in the Gray House with his Cabinet.

“All right, I want war plans,” Sarzo said. “I need you to come up with a battle plan for a war against Automagfreek.”

All the military officers in the room let out a collective gasp.

“Mike, are you crazy? They’ll eat us alive,” Vice President for Defense John Newman said. “We don’t have a chance against those Sentinels.”

“If we can prevent them from landing those Sentinels, we might have a chance to do something,” Navy Chief Kathy Bunhall said. “We built a navy to be large enough to win wars on several fronts. Surely we can use it to win a war on one front, no matter how large.”

“That’s a very big if,” Newman said. “Mike, it’s suicide. Don’t do it.”

“John, we don’t have a choice,” Sarzo said. “They’ve now threatened Isselmere. If we’re not moved to act for our closest allies, then what will it take? One million Sentinels beating down your doorstep? If we don’t stop them now, who will?

“I need battle plans and I need them now,” Sarzo snapped, pounded the table with his right fist. “What have you got?”

“Blockade for starters,” Bunhall said. “We’re going to have to engage their navy at some point and I think we have an advantage there.”

“What about those Sentinels,” Newman asked.

“What about them,” Sarzo retorted. “They may be genetically bred, but they’re not so superhuman that they can’t be beaten. If they can even get to our shores, that is.”

“That’s going to have to be the Navy’s job,” Army Chief Hal Luxton said. “If the Air Force can win the air battles, we may be able to disrupt their supply lines to make the Sentinels a non-issue.”

“Hal’s right,” Air Force Chief Bill Lighton said. “Our best chance to win this war lies in preventing those Sentinels from even landing in Sarzonia. We’ve got the navy to do it. Our pilots are some fierce mofos. The only question is the Army.”

“That’s General Santius’s department,” Luxton said. “This will be where he earns his paycheck.”

Santius gulped. He was aware of the Sentinels’ reputation but never expected to have to plan for a war against them.

“We’re going to have to evacuate the cities and towns of civilians. They go after everybody,” he said. “I think we should also set a trap for them wherever we can. Set some explosives to go off when a certain number of biosigns enters a building. Get our army and militia to conduct guerilla warfare tactics. Give them as few targets as humanly possible. That’s assuming they get any Sentinels on Sarzonian shores.”

“And if we can somehow prevent that,” Sarzo asked. “We’re going to need a battle plan for an offensive attack if we can prevent their Sentinels from landing and that blockade starts to work.”

“Are you suggesting – an invasion,” Newman asked.

“You could say that,” Sarzo said.

“We’re going to have to take out any AA defenses they may have,” Newman said finally. Have the navy bombard their coastal cities with air strikes and our large guns. But actually land our army? It’s very inexperienced.”

“We’re going to have to do the best we can, won’t we,” Santius said. “I think I can plan something but I’m going to need a lot of special ops forces to do it.”

“And that would be,” Newman asked, now intrigued.

“Take out their power lines and their supplies. Launch raids on their weapons stores. We can disrupt the living crap out of them and really wreak some havoc.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Sarzo said.

Within a matter of hours, massive binders were distributed to Cabinet officials, department heads, and members of Parliament with a detailed justification for the war and an analysis of the battle plans for Sarzonia.

“My fellow Sarzonians, I am about to ask Parliament to do something that it pains me to do anytime, but especially with the odds we are facing. Today, I am asking Parliament to declare a state of war between Sarzonia and Automagfreek.

“In the course of our world’s history, we have reached several roads that prove to be defining moments in history. This will be one such defining moment. We can not allow an aggressive people to continue their warmongering ways. We can not allow our world to live in constant fear for their lives and their freedoms. We can not allow this spawn of the Devil himself, Lord Damien Dreadfire, to continue his campaign of fear and intimidation unchecked. It is Sarzonia who must stand up and say, ‘no more. Enough is enough.’”

Within hours, the Senate voted 29-23 to declare war. The House of Delegates followed suit by a vote of 418-215 fully 24 hours after Sarzo’s speech. Sarzonia was now at war with perhaps its most fearsome foe yet.

Meriadoc

16-11-2004, 22:03

I've come up with something. For the record: 742 words, well below the limit.

Ecstasy in Apartment 34

It was June 18 and Amanda Jacobson of 1734 Mustang Lane, #34 woke up at 6:30 a.m. to go to work. She has worked as an auto saleswoman at West Coast Motors, a used car dealership in the slice of Suburbia known as Restuga, Leechi, for five years and today was scheduled for an 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. shift with an hour-long lunch break.

Amanda was one of WCM’s most successful car sellers and, in fact, led the dealership’s current staff with a 1.53 vehicles sold per day average. She was very proud of this fact, but never knew what to credit. Was it her beauty? Was she a persuasive speaker? Was it a combination or something else entirely? She neither knew nor cared why she was so good at selling vehicles.

No matter what it was, she headed off in her 2005 Chevrolet Colorado pickup truck and started for another day of selling cars. Her apartment was a straight shot on Mustang Lane from the dealership. This was a good thing, considering that Amanda had a not terrible but rather a mediocre sense of direction and made sure that her truck had one of those electronic compasses.

When she arrived to work, Amanda sat around and chatted with co-workers until it was close to time for her to clock in, having arrived between a quarter ‘til and 7:50. She had a friendly boss named Marvin Jones who was quite often involved in these pre-shift chats. Another person often involved was co-worker Alvin Wilson. Amanda had a romantic interest in “Al” – who went by either name – but was too nervous to inform him of her feelings. There was a c-store between Amanda’s apartment and the dealership where she would stop in for a daily 350-millilitre cup of cappuccino. Actually, to be more precise, she would buy Marvin, Al, and herself cappuccino because she knew how much they liked it and, in Al’s case, would do anything within the limits of sanity to attract him.

The daily coffee must have worked, because Alvin, after they were both off work, asked Amanda for a date to one of the more modest – but not fast food – restaurants in town, similar to an Applebee’s or Winger’s in the USA. Her answer was an emphatic “You bet your bottom brandybuck!” So they arranged to meet at her apartment at 7 o’clock that evening. Could this day have gone any better? Amanda had sold 3 vehicles and on top of that, her love interest had asked her out on a date! She was simply in seventh heaven.

So, while she was getting ready for her dream date, Amanda was talking with her roomy, Justine Harvick, about her wonderful day at work. She went into the minutest detail about all three auto sales she had made and then went into even more detail about how she had been asked for this date by her dream guy.

“It sounds like you had a great day,” said Justine. “I’m glad that this guy you like so much asked you out for tonight.”

“I most certainly did; I don’t think it could get any better,” replied Amanda.

“Knock, knock, knock.” Somebody was at the door and Justine answered it. It was Alvin. “Amanda, Al’s here!” Before going out to meet him, Amanda composed herself because she didn’t want to appear like some love-struck fool, especially not the fool part. She did go out with a smile on her face and they went and had a marvelous time. They enjoyed laughing about stuff going on at work and other places and made complete messes on their faces with barbeque sauce that the other always cleaned up. Amanda had a good feeling that her feelings for Al might be mutual. She was praying that was the case, anyway. When Alvin dropped her off, Amanda’s hope that Al felt the same for her was increased when he gave her a goodnight kiss … at around 11 o’clock at night! They had laughed, cleaned each other’s faces of barbeque sauce, and just generally enjoyed each other’s company for a whopping four hours.

After she got into their apartment, Amanda wanted to tell Justine about her wonderful date, but it was late and she had to get to bed so she could get up and go to work in the morning. But Justine got all caught up on the evening’s events during her roommate’s lunch hour.

Automagfreek

16-11-2004, 22:22

*claps hands*

Wonderfully well done post Sarzonia! If we weren't allies, that would definatly be a war I'd like to participate in. Granted, I'd have to pull a few tricks out of me sleeve to get one over on you, but it would certianly be interesting.

Well done post. No tech wank, no endless rabble about this's and that's, no number wank, just pure....story.

*tips hat off*

Scandavian States

17-11-2004, 01:21

Hey, AMF, glaring gramatical errors aside, how was my story? I want to improve my story-telling (the spelling was me just being sloppy) but I need someone who's a better writer than I to give pointers.

Isselmere

17-11-2004, 01:48

This is a snippet from a story I'd written several years ago...

The walls were mildew, the floors scuffed and stained by a variety of desirably unascertainable liquids. Police reports indicated within the room a number of chemicals necessary for the production of explosives. Obviously it had been the residence of someone working for an opposition movement, or so it was intended for him to believe. The Examining Magistrate shook his head to the invasion of another squat in the dead old city outskirts. The lights didn’t work but he noticed the occupants had made use of a gas lantern, or maybe the unvarnished flooring was the result of a gas stove instead. In any case, that was unimportant. He was merely there to assess the situation, rubber stamp the investigation and subsequent arrests of the illegal occupants, and then to provide for the convictions thereof. Whether he hated his job or just despised the methods he had to use was unknown to him. Either way, if not for the lack of other work, he was committed to end his tenure with haste.

He had seen the purported bombers. They were too stupid to light a firecracker never mind fabricate the complicated bomb that had removed another minister, this time of Communication Services, from Cabinet. The products of an educational system capable only of preparing short order cooks and surly clerks. Even if the police had not the excuse to arrest the bastards for supposed illicit possession of harmful substances (Article 713) they would have been booked for possession of drugs and paraphernalia thereof (Article 713.11). The authorities didn’t need a warrant—the residents were there illegally—thus any charges laid in addition to unlawful residence within a condemned edifice (Article 941.12) were valid. Still, it would not improve the image of the Force if a band of half-witted addicts were able to outsmart Special Branch so those charges would not be brought forth unless the poor bastards couldn’t be convicted for explosives.

Wrapping his tan raincoat around his slowly expanding wiry middle-aged frame, he nodded while making non-committal guttural sounds to indicate his disinterested acquiescence in the scheme to the surrounding uniformed constables. For the first time he noticed how their midnight blue garb—if one disregarded the white stripes of the sergeant and similarly coloured numbers on their black epaulettes—blended into the decaying walls, like ghosts. Or demons. The Examining Magistrate could no longer discern between the two. Like all distinctions, good and evil were replaced by a pervasive deep dark grey. Constables and sergeant alike mumbled in response and followed him out the remnants of the door, hanging precariously on its broken rusty hinges. The local force was really little better than rabble.

The hallways were damp, stinking of a cornucopia of mould, rot, excreta, death, and, faintly, incense. The last odour must have aided the police—armed as they were with dogs as well as firearms—in discovering their victims. Were the federal fellows near the actual culprits or did they too consider the crime as comparatively of little note? After all, the Minister was an unpopular cretin, best known for his inability to say no to rate increases. The bastards did the Government a favour by removing him, although the rapidity by which the claim to responsibility was delivered made the Examining Magistrate wary who had set the device. Rumours were circulating, both at the office and in the media, about security forces' involvement in some terrorist actions, including some resulting in the deaths of its own members. This possibility did not surprise the Examining Magistrate. There could be little harm in removing clods like those running this investigation, or some barely educated conscripts.

He was astonished to note the walls were painted a cheery emerald green—when not covered by graffiti or plant life—that must have made the algae feel at home. Carpet, however, could not be distinguished save by its soaked spongy character. Otherwise, it was covered by discarded decaying fast food containers, whose grease provided ample breeding material for the miniature ecosystem, condoms and their packets, cigarettes, bottles, and other drug paraphernalia, as well as a number of decomposing and half-eaten animals—pigeons, rats, the thankfully indiscernible. City living made one truly aware of humanity’s extremes. Once outside the blackened structure—ex-red brick workers’ housing development—of broken and/or boarded windows and into the early morning smog they entered into the bizarre world of green grass and a small family of large brown rats gnawing on something of which he preferred ignorance. The urban landscape. Those tourism advertisements always tended to miss the more interesting aspects.

An innocuous white compact awaited the Examining Magistrate. Ever since the Emergency began, the Government instituted an anonymity package for its more visible agents of repression. Personally, it made him feel like a Sicilian anti-Mafia advocate without the pride of being pro-social. Unfortunately, it blended perfectly with the police sedans and wagons making a semi-circle in front of the building. So much for disguise. Once the friendly little convoy started moving, however, it would offer him a little protection in case someone decided to strike against authority. Kids were not so violent to the police in his day, but then there were jobs and a degree of security. But there were none of the little bastards in the streets, possibility a prelude to stone throwing, maybe they were still partying from the night before, most likely they either escaped the area when the police first arrived or were hiding. Still, he surveyed the surroundings to be sure before entering the car.

Housing development of row houses surrounded by thankfully encroaching grass and colourful weeds, although mostly becoming a disgusting black brown, spinning from the deserted factory—of a corporation long since self-removed—that once employed their residents, identical in contour and decay, conforming—albeit darker—to the sky’s own rust and grey, encompassed the convoy as it scurried through the complex thin labyrinthine roadways. White laboratory rats searching for the exit and food pellets in a maze of miserable blackened hovels sheltering the part-time, the unemployed, the petty criminals, and the more advanced variety thereof. What a tempting target they must make to the unemployed working-class seeking to strike against an apathetic authority. But no example of this ever increasing herd dared show a hair. This both comforted and disappointed the Examining Magistrate, the former because of concerns for his personal safety, the latter because of worries about the disappearance of political solutions. Nowadays, although he expected it was probably always the truth, the young preferred using themselves as guinea pigs in chemistry and sociology experiments to legitimate empowering action. Why change the world when it is simpler to merely change one’s impressions thereof? He laughed at the increasingly left-wing thoughts that penetrated his philosophy, the curse of having a politically active daughter.

Filtering through the internal banter were the reports emanating from the police radio: riots had broken out at another segment of tenements, a number of officers had been injured while thirteen protesters had been arrested; a hold-up of a bank resulted in two robbers and one guard dead, two guards wounded, and one robber escaped. This from the local station. Crimes had increased by four percent from last year, which saw five percent more than the year before. The number and severity of crimes is proportional to the level of economic insecurity, although he could not recall the exact ratio as determined by Watkins’s Law, which was generally five to six percent off anyway. Volodchenka was more accurate. Still, it had to be said that crimes had actually decreased in the three years since the Emergency had been declared. An effect of decreased reporting by the public as well as shuffling of figures by the government offices rather than any actual diminishment, he suspected.

As the convoy made its way through the industrial district to the station, the roadside garbage lessened, the graffiti slackened, the signs of overt poverty—rather than just common proletarian desperation—slid away, albeit only slightly. The majority of police on foot patrol were still helmeted and equipped with gas masks, almost paranoid in their surveillance of the community, uncomfortable in their well-intentioned banter with storekeepers. Occasionally, wheeled military armoured personnel carriers rumbled through the streets towards the outskirts in response to frantic calls from the riot squad. This was becoming a frequent occurrence in recent months, caused by angst and boredom so familiar to the young exasperated by the frustrations of empty lives instead of what media sources termed political activism. The police were much better equipped to suppress these demonstrations as the soldiers, composed almost entirely of conscripts taken from similar circumstances, were often sympathetic despite indoctrination courses. But the sight of heavily armed hooligans in camouflage shouting, advancing at port arms had a more profound impact, at least initially, on the impression of the restless natives—the soldiers were an unknown quantity, unfamiliar to the locals (due to the government posting policy), and potentially more violent—so dispersed the crowds with less direct contact even when primarily armed with rubber-bullet rifles. In these central neighbourhoods, however, the army vehicles were rare, the police freer in their stride. These petty changes didn’t improve the Examining Magistrate’s scepticism of relative security.

The convoy slid past the guard post, through the iron grille and steel curtain gates, into the station’s underground lot. Riot squads, entirely in black, streamed from the wagons to the armory discussing their past antics. Their cruel confident stride was seductive, luring one to conform. He was entranced, unaware of the thunderous bulk of the Detective Sergeant tapping ponderously the door window until the lout began to shout. The Examining Magistrate swung the door open quickly, enraged the fat bastard had woken him from the disturbing reverie, marching immediately towards the station entrance. Responding sluggishly, the DS hurled obscenities without effect. Because of this bluntness, both in manner and intelligence, the Examining Magistrate had always disliked the policeman. Now the two were working on the same crime, with the DS in charge of the scene and the Examining Magistrate directing the course of the investigation (insofar as managed how the preliminary prosecution would lead), a certain playful animosity had developed because of one fact: the policeman was not even intellectually qualified to ticket illegally parked vehicles. Proof of an unimportant case.

The Examining Magistrate breezed past reception without a glance, the duty officer too busy documenting arrivals of petty criminals and worse, into the appropriate interview room. Corridor walls once white were now covered with posters—most in a state of disrepair—scuffed, or otherwise ill-kept, the floors littered with garbage including reports of various types as well as the ubiquitous fast food wrappers. Even after entering the ‘Authorised Personnel Only’ area entropy was permitted control, albeit mildly checked, until he lurched into the interview room.

Therein, order prevailed, save for disposable coffee cups, cigarette butts, and specks of blood and spit on the grey linoleum floor and off-white walls. The obese police sergeant from the lot was cursing at one of the alleged demanding to know what the moronic nerve-miner never could have known. Fatman’s forelock swung along his nose with Poe’s pendulum precision counting down the poor fool’s last moments of freedom and physical completeness. The suspect squirmed within his seat, the prison clothes rustling coarsely, a bizarre sulphuric scent from delousing coming from him mixing with sweat to produce a disgusting mercaptan odour reproducible only by skunks. There was no possible way he could save himself now: he knew nothing that could diminish his sentence, scarcely more about his companions, and a fair amount of withdrawal pains. Weren’t those enough, every missed question was greeted with a slap, the inspector, beside laughing boy, making no attempt to hinder his subordinate’s abuses but also not acknowledging the presence of the interloper. Thus the Examining Magistrate brought about both a cessation of the physical assaults and notice of his existence by berating the mindless oaf of a sergeant. The inspector merely registered the Examining Magistrate’s entrance onto the cassette recorder without attempting to stop this new brutality either. Flinging his coffee cup against the wall, the sergeant rose to the attack, pit stains spread from his elbows to his waist, a dark blemish on his black-pin-striped white shirt, coffee and food blotches on his blue grey trousers but the official calmly ordered the savage to leave or suffer disciplinary action. Further enraged, the policeman looked at his superior for encouragement to destroy this investigator as well, but the inspector just motioned the sergeant out with an exaggerated nod towards the door.

Once the hooligan was away, the Examining Magistrate, after wiping the sweat from the seat, began questioning the alleged. Fidgetting in county criminal orange, hands still in stainless steel manacles, cigarette burns evident on his hands and forearms as well as bruises recalling the arrest, track marks almost everywhere else, the man was in poor condition to respond cogently to anything proposed. It was certain the officers were trying to force a confession from him—to great effect as he was moaning grotesquely, willing to sign anything—but the Examining Magistrate preferred to discover the truth. The inspector beside shook his head before wandering over to the far wall, indifferent to these juridical follies. Still, the officer of the court decided to proceed. How did he find himself in that building; what was he doing there; how long did he know his companions; was he familiar with the political situation within the nation, and; did he know why he was arrested? The preliminary report was correct in its derisory view of these mental sluggards, if this man was to be considered nominal for the assortment, as it took ages for him to respond. Finally: well, just sort of went there; what you fucking think, you dumb bastard; who?; who gives a fuck, and; these pricks will stop anyone. After the man—although this might be a misnomer for although the ravages of drugs aged his body by at least ten years he appeared no older than mid-twenties—made his rejoinders, which he, through the drug haze, thought emanently witty, the Examining Magistrate decided to ask the necessary information which was strangely missing from the report. The inspector groaned, his forgetfulness causing him to clutch his head in exasperation. Noticing this display from the corner of his eye, the Examining Magistrate smirked. But the little bastard, the stupid little prick, he refused to answer until his lawyer arrived. It was amazing to the official that this individual was perfectly willing to discuss, albeit obliquely, his habit but unwilling to potentially extract himself from a disastrously long prison sentence. The Examining Magistrate revealed this to the alleged who finally rethought his behaviour and answered. He was only fifteen—a suspicion confirmed—and said he had no previous trouble with the police. Unfortunately for the minor, a uniformed sergeant entered with a four page report detailing the previous offenses, ranging from shoplifting to armed robbery, not missing prostitution and other drug charges. It was pleasant to note that someone at the station knew their job, although disconcerting to note the rapidity and extent of the information database, even if it was just for criminals.

Izistan

17-11-2004, 05:39

This one is non-NS and I wrote it in two parts, but they are both inlcuded.

Conflict.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
PT.1
The flight of Stormwraith fighters appeared from the clouds without warning above the sleepy mountain village. They sped through the air, their piolets anxious to see combat. They dove suddenly, the pulse lasers flashing. Below in the village, tanks and armored cars exploded as the lasers cut through the armor and lit the fuel on fire. A building, no not one but two exploded as the ammunition stored inside exploded. Screaming figures covered in burning fuel or blood ran this way and that. Shrapnel flew everywhere, killing many. The Stormwraiths sped away into the cover of the clouds .

Over the village a group of VTOL transports appeared. Inside the soldiers (The 32nd Immortals) checked their weapons which consisted of pulse lasers and plasma flamethrowers with a few guided rocket launchers thrown in for good measure. The transports hung over the village like toys. Then the onboard gunners began to pick out targets among the rubble. Five people ran, five flashes of light, and five smoking bodies hit the ground. The transports began to land and the Immortals poured out.

Within a short amount of time the village was under Resistance control. Then a satellite picked up a column of tanks moving towards the village, clearly intending to win it back. The Stormwraiths moved in and took care of that with a combination of 87mm rockets and plasma bombs. Smoke hung over the village, the place stank of death. The Immortals began to set up fixed weapon platforms, SAM’s and long range rocket artillery. Explosions echoed in the distance as Alliance troops struggled with Resistance fighters for control of the road leading to the village. A heavy machine gun chattered away for a brief moment and was suddenly silenced; likely due to a guided rocket. Another transport landed and a squad of fighters disembarked, their MCR-4 Pulse Lasers gleamed as they ran towards a waiting APC.

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PT.2

The APC’s wheels threw up a curtain of mud as the armored transport chewed its way towards the fighting on the road below. A heavy machine gun fired at the APC, the impact of the 20mm shells sounded like hail on a tin roof, the armor began to buckle under the heavy shells. But thankfully a storm of 145mm rockets flew from the village above and hammered the enemy position, silencing the gun. The APC rolled to a stop and the troops exited, running towards a nearby trench.

Just as the troops reached the trench, the Alliance fired a barrage of 250mm rockets on the Coalition position. Dust and the screams of the dying filled the air as the rockets poured down from the heavens. The troops in the trench began firing at the advancing enemy while calling for artillery support.

Far above the fighting hung the awesome form of the CSS Deathangel. A October class orbital destroyer. Launched just six weeks ago from a laser launcher in North Africa, it had enough weaponry to bring a nation to its knees. Upon receiving the call for help from the ground forces it expelled a number of cylinders into the void. These quicky entered the Earths atmosphere and broke up into a number of tungsten alloy rods. Traveling at hypersonic speeds these smashed into the enemy forces and rocket launchers, leveling the whole area(with the exception of the Coalition troops). The onboard sensors detected a single tank in full retreat, so naturally the ship’s Microwave Radiation Focusing Arrays fired a high powered pulse of radiation at the tank. The tank exploded as its ammunition cooked off, the remainder was reduced to slag under the sheer volume of energy expelled by the ship. The Deathangel then turned its attention to the Alliance weapons platform that was firing 30mm slugs at the ship. A single fusion torpedo took care of that problem.

The troops looked at was once a pristine mountain landscape, but was now a collection of craters and smoking debris. Nothing remained of the Alliance forces./ Now they were free to take the town at the foot of the mountains. The collection of soldiers took off towards the VTOL transports that had just landed across from their position.

Aust

17-11-2004, 20:43

A little thing I've been working on lately, it's not finished, but this is my basic writing style and may give you an idea of how I write. It's work in progress so any comments would be appreciated.

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

Hogsweat

17-11-2004, 23:45

If I didn't have some RL limits and Halo 2, I would do a uber-massive post... So I'll just do a smaller one instead =) Everything thats been posted here is great writing already. Good work ; )

Kryozerkia

18-11-2004, 17:59

Elation of Morality (http://fiction.seiryuuheaven.net/viewstory.php?sid=969).

This is one of my finer original pieces. It's short and sweet.

This is told from the first person POV.

I'd say it's rated about PG-PG13.

I orgibally wrote this for another challenge over a year ago. But, I think it's still good. ^_^

BTW, my writing alias is Chikita. The link provided is linked to my account at the fiction/fanfiction archive I'm an admin at. The link there links to my account where I have more of my fiction/fanfiction posted.

Meriadoc

18-11-2004, 22:31

I've been thinking, and perhaps my story is begging for a sequal. Maybe I'll try and get one written up sometime tomorrow afternoon and publish it to my Web site.

Jenrak

19-11-2004, 03:40

I'm working on a novel, and here is a VERY SHORT section from my book that I'm working on. i don't care about winning or anything, just tell me if its good or not. it has some gore.

The two drew their swords from their sheaths, and the swords sang as their masters drew their swords. The ringing was loud, and Rashkta sat down with her arms crossed and she watched the bloody scene unfold. Her eyes shifted swiftly as the swords gleamed in the light, and the rays bounced off the widely decorated room.
Andra drew his sword, and the Kirankur ebbed off a violent bluish aura, as it slithered from the blade into the air, and the aura gave off a cold and unwelcome presence. Andra’s feelings were reflected quite cruelly in the sword’s beautiful aura, and yet the blade was crusted with the blood of many slain warriors.
The king, however, drew a finely crafted sword that seemed plain in stature, and the blade was clean and untarnished. But then, in a fading instant, the sword swished across the floor and the blade slid on the ground, and it caught fire. The blade caught fire extremely fast, and it restricted itself to the blade. The fire burned vigorously, and the blade did not melt, even from the extreme heat. Andra was not amazed, as Enkur himself had a massive sword that shattered the hills and shook the mountains themselves when he used it, and his mythical brother Ciranaar had an even more potent sword that could stretch and shorten itself when needed, and it could become alive.
But then, at that moment, the king drew another sword. He razed it across the smooth transparent floor and it itself, like its copy, burst into flame and engulfed the blades with fire. Andra’s spirit burned, and the Kirankur intensified its flame. The swords all had the power of fire, and the two swordsmen squared off into the dusky sunlight.
The king lowered his legs and shifted his shoulders, and then he leapt towards Andra with amazing vigor. Andra dodged out of his reach and he took a sideswipe at the king’s ribs, but the sword blocked his attack in an instant. The heat burned from the blade and then it breached its way into Andra’s hilt, and his hand burned with an intense and unstoppable heat. He pulled his hand away quickly.
“You are inadequate. You underestimate me.” Andra murmured.
“Correction, my dear barbarian, you are undermining me. Quite extremely, I might add.” The king answered fully.
Andra jumped up as the king slashed across at him and the Kirankur made contact with the king’s second sword. Again, the heat from the fire burned with an insane intensity. The king seemed no longer short, staunch, nor foolish and blustery, but now a tall and fully-fledged warrior stood before him, with amazing reflexes, and an aura of valor surrounding him. Andra felt this power surging from him incredible, and a new respect for the man formed. Although he and Andra are enemies, Andra sworn not to kill this stalwart warrior.
But the king proved nearly impossible of besting, as the fire that latched onto his blades seemed like it was alive, and the only hope of getting past his amazing defensive qualities were to put his impenetrable defenses into an offense. So, Andra fended two attacks by jumping when he landed again, and swiping down hard to distract the king, as his rampage began consuming him.
Andra jumped over the tall model of the world, and he jammed the ruby ring onto his forefinger on his left hand. Andra took the Kirankur and jammed it painfully into the golden room’s many walls and he hung on, waiting for the king to go to him, and thus make himself vulnerable. But the king did not, and instead he threw his sword with impossible accuracy and Andra dodged just in time.
Then, in the instant he dodged, another sword came flying towards the bridge of his nose, and Andra couldn’t move fast enough to get out of harm’s way. He jerked his head to the side, but the sword had sliced deep into his neck, and blood began to spurt out like a fountain.
His arteries hummed through his neck quickly, and blood rushed into his brain too quickly. Andra was in terrible pain and he his veins and arteries, although not cut, burned violently and they swelled up and opened the wound to an inhuman extent.
But Andra dropped down onto the floor and he stood up and charged valorously at the king, but with the jerk of his hand his swords flew back into them, as if some force attracted them to their owner’s hands. Then Andra saw it.
Chains, with a transparent coating to hide their existence, dangled around the king’s fabled hands, and the wrinkled fingers showed pressing of some object against the skin. Andra stood up, and he tried to stab at the king, but the king shifted left and brought down his wrath. Andra swerved to the right and knocked over a chair. He sidestepped to the left to avoid another attack, the fire faintly touched his skin, but it still burned violently on it.
Andra ducked his head and stabbed, but the king knocked the attack away efficiently and the second sword came down. Andra rashly whipped up the Kirankur and the aura extinguished the fire on the second sword. Andra stood up, but at that moment the king slashed the floor and the fire seemed to reborn, and burned even stronger. Andra’s hope had faded, but he kept battling furiously to keep his life.
He leaped up when the strong stroke came with two swords, but then the king’s fist came out to meet him. It smashed right into his jaw and nearly ripped his mouth and its bones right off its skull, and Andra crashed into the stone wall. Andra laid on the floor, nearly at death. Then he rose and faintly began to strike at the king, but it proved impossible. The king dodged the attack and he swiped at Andra again, but this time Andra blocked and he punched the king. The king staggered back, but his face seemed unaffected by the attack.
The king stood before the wreck that was Andra, and he took out a long dagger engraved with a white ship. The king sheathed his swords and the fire went out, and then Andra made his move. Reaching up, Andra tried to strike at the king but the king simply stabbed his hand with the dagger, and Andra’s hand began to burst out blood even more so than his veins and arteries in his neck. Loss of blood began to take effect, and Andra felt tired and in a horrible, searing pain. The king walked over to Andra, as he loosened what was left of his grip on the Kirankur, and the aura emanating from the blade began to die.
Life was trickling away from him as fast his blood was, and Andra felt near death. The king stood before him, with his expressionless face peering down upon him. The king lifted his long dagger, and dangled it with his forefinger and middle finger over Andra’s open (and broken) mouth.
“You care only about yourself. You cannot protect yourself and you are broken. May god have mercy on your soul.” The king concluded dramatically.
But when the king finished, and when he was about to drop the dagger over Andra’s mouth, a blade stuck out through the king’s throat, and his atom’s apple skewered wildly on the blade that was protruding from his neck. His blood spurted out, and his atom’s apple slipped off the blade and rolled onto the ground.
The blade moved down his body extremely quickly, and pieces of his spinal cord flew out in every direction and rolled out of sight, while blood smeared the floor and a pond of red blood flowed from the corpse. The king gurgled and lurched for seconds in twisted pain, and in a final moment, he lurched to the side and his body fell, split gruesomely in half. His head tried to breathe, but when he drew breath instead whatever was left of his blood splashed out into the floor, as his heart struggled quite visibly in the sunlight.
Eyes out of focus, and his ears and nose and mouth churning out blood, the king was dead. The corpse laid there on top of the fanciful rug that was already red, and the stains left almost no difference in color. The killer, with blonde hair and cold eyes, knelt down beside Andra and took of her sash.
“Don’t die. C’mon.” Rashkta urged, as she hurriedly took off her large sash, reached into a pocket and tied a long white wrapping made of silk around Andra’s neck, and then dropped sizable amounts of a small green liquid onto his wound. The wound burned and sizzled violently, and then the wound began to mend.
“I can’t believe it.” Rashkta complained. “The king of Jenrak is scared of a siege so he retreats to the mountains yet he doesn’t have any fear of killing the leader.” She patched up Andra’s arm, and his other wounds seemed to be almost healed.
“Here.” Rashkta urged onto Andra’s near unconscious body a soft bubbling blue liquid, and when Andra did not move she forced it down his throat.
“Don’t worry.” Rashkta assured him. “Its Imp blood. It’ll help you get back to normal.” Rashkta stood up and stared at the scene. The once golden and gleaming diplomacy room was now smeared everywhere with blood, and the walls were charred from the king’s swords and his fanatical swings at Andra. The bandit king himself laid on the floor and the corpse of the late king of Jenrak, sliced brutally in half, was nearly flooding the room. The sunlight began to fall rapidly, and the night was approaching.
Rashkta had to get out fast, or the pair of them will never make it out alive should the guards come and check. So she spun towards the massive door and pried it open. Walking back over to Andra, Rashkta drew her sash upon her back once more and she carried Andra onto her back. She carried him through the hallways of the paintings, and the faces seemed to be furious, with frowns and evil faces peering at Rashkta as she moved down the many stairs.
Before she walked down, she glanced down the hallway and the wind blew the blood from the room onto the walls of the hallway, and it smeared the walls. She hurried down the stairs, and began to cut through the dining room. Andra began to stir, and she felt relieved and safe.
Rashkta ran down the stairs, and the soldiers went the opposite way to the diplomacy to check on their king. Rashkta began to hurry as fast as she possibly could, and when Rashkta reached halfway through (the first silver hallway with gold ornaments) Andra leapt off her back, and he shook his head.
“We are in trouble.” Andra spoke. Rashkta turned around, and felt relieved. She hugged him affectionately, and she backed off for a bit. “The king is dead.”
“He was about to kill you. So, in your stead, I killed him.” Rashkta explained quickly.
“But I didn’t want to kill him.” Andra answered.
Rashkta was confused. “But why? He attacked you first.”
“He was a warrior, and being so if we both lived we would have had a memorable relationship with our countries. Things could have been better.” Andra explained.
“He has many heirs, and they will be to cowardly to attack us. Come on, before the guards find out what happened.” Rashkta urged on.
Andra seemed to sense what had happened. “Let us go. Quickly!” He yelled as Rashkta sped on forwards.
The two raced out of the long hallway and they braced down the stairs, mostly by jumping down. They ran out of the inner keep when an arrow flew at them, but missed, and they both knew the guards had found out what happened. The arrows flew at them like a storm, and it was like trying to dodge rain in a thunderstorm. Twice Andra was hit with arrows that dug deeply into his freshly healed wound, and Rashkta had an arrow nearly skinned her eye.
The two of them ran to the stables, and Andra and Rashkta mounted their horses. Soldiers with long swords came out and brandished violently in front of them, but the horses galloped onwards. However, a stray arrow flew forwards and pierced the eye of Andrui, and the magnificent armor clad horse suddenly began neighing violently. The horse kept thrashing around and Andra fell of its powerful back. The horse trampled many soldiers, until a rain of arrows flew forwards and killed Andrui, and pierced the noble horse’s heart. The horse fell onto the side with the arrows latched onto, and when he fell it merely made the long arrows dig deeper into the horse’s body, until the arrowheads protruded from the other side.
The horse made its last jerk of pain, and it finally became completely immobile, as death had taken its toll. The horse laid there, as flies had already begun to swarm over its body to begin feasting upon it. Andra leaped onto Rashkta’s horse, and the pair of them galloped to the gates, as arrows flew at them. Andra jumped off the horse and turned the gate open, even as an arrow flew and dug deep into his leg. The pain seared up and the gate was open.

MMI

20-11-2004, 07:49

Our example is here: http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=334422

This is probably our best writing. It is a story of an Emperor's Demise (the Emperor of MMI). It's actually a lead in prologue for a much bigger story to yet unfold. Enjoy.

The Lightning Star

20-11-2004, 17:53

Well, this is probably the best work i could write at this moment. However, i'd just like to inform you of a few things:
1, I went to bed REALLY late last night.
2, I worte this in 1-2 hours. Cut me some slack.
3, Im only 12! I may be in Enriched Writing, but you guys have loads more expirience than me!
4, Bavor is my pen name, as well as my MMORPG name.

Fire and Hazard
A Short Story by Bavor

Long ago and far away, in a place few have ever ventured, there lived a warrior named Braskar. He lived on top of a mountain in a small hut which he called home. No one knows from whence he came, but some say that he was a general in the Great War. Others say that he was a poor miller who lost all during the incursion. However, everyone agrees that on top of that mountain he trained his skill with the bow and the arrow, perfecting the art of war. From on top of that mountain he could see the little village of Talazio, nestled in the valley below. Occasionally he went down to the village, and on one such trip he met the woman of his dreams and lost her in an instant.

It began as a normal trip like any other. T’was Sunday and the market was full of assorted goods. There were cabbages and carrots, pigs and cows, and just about any other produce you would expect to find in a rural village market. As he walked by the stalls, out of the corner of his eyes he saw some brigands wrestling a fair maiden to the ground. She was clad in nothing but the clothes of your average peasant, yet she shone like a golden sun, radiated in beauty. “Halt, fiends!” he shouted as he drew his sword. “Lookit here!” said one of the men in a gruff voice. “It’s a ‘hero’!” The rest of the men snickered while trying to hold the maiden down. “You have underestimated me, sir. That was a very poor move on your part,” responded Braskar. He then charged at the men and swiftly decapitated them with his sword.

After wiping off his blade, he turned to see the woman. He saw that she was bleeding profusely. He ran and knelt by her side. “Everything is fine now, those fiends are dispatched.”
“Yes, kind sir, but it is too late for me. They managed to stab me with many poisoned daggers. Not even the greatest healer in the world could save me now.”
“Hush now, say not such things. Tell me, fair maiden, what is your name?”
“They call me--they call me—I…cannot remember. Everything is going dark…”
“Wait! Don’t go! We’ve only just met!”
“I see a light…good bye, fair knight…”
Then the maidens head went limp, and the beauty which once radiated from her body was gone forever.

By now a crowd had surrounded the scene, and they stood staring at Braskar. He then stood up and, paying no heed to the crowd of peasants, walked back up to his hut on the hillside. There he would practice his archery and swordsmanship even harder and well into the night. He feared the night, for whenever he laid in his bed the haunting figure of the maiden’s fair body appeared before him. For 7 months he trained up there, and managed to fashion for himself a suit of armor. He trained and trained and trained until one fateful night in November.

As Braskar lay in his bead one night, he heard a fair voice singing in the air. He rose from his bed, donned his clothes, and took his sword. Once he stepped out of the hut, he was overwhelmed by the aroma of violets. He looked around for the source of the voice, yet he saw nothing. He then walked inside and saw a beautiful ghostly figure standing by his armor closet. The figure looked familiar, but he couldn’t tell exactly who it was. Upon opening his armor closet, he found a magnificent suit of mithril armor. It was a silvery white and it shone like the moon in the sky. He quickly donned the armor, and it felt as if he were wearing nothing at all. The figure then motioned towards his sword, which had been transformed into a magnificent weapon. Upon the hilt of the blade was the word “Aleksis.” He raised his head, but instead of seeing the ghostly maiden he saw just the wall. Slightly panicking, he ran out of the hut to look for the ghostly maiden. He saw her descending towards the village which to his horror was in flames. In the middle of the village was a great red dragon, burning down everything in its path. Braskar the warrior then ran down the hill in his new armor, which had granted him great speed.

Upon reaching the village, he was nearly overwhelmed by the horror. The smell of roasting flesh hung in the air, while the heat from the burning buildings made him sweat profusely. The screams of women and children were everywhere. After the initial shock, Braskar ran towards the village green. There, the men of the village were trying bravely to fight the dragon. Unfortunately for them, they were no match and were slaughtered. Braskar then raised his sword at the mighty beast. The dragons head turned towards Braskar, and their eyes met. After a minute of just staring at each other, Braskar charged towards the dragon. Sword raised, he jumped high into the air and brought the sword crashing down. While this would kill any other beast, dragon hide is extremely strong so it only suffered a flesh wound. The dragon then swung its barbed tail around to try and stab the warrior. Metal clashed against metal, and sparks flew everywhere. The Mithril armor granted Braskar great agility, yet the dragon was fast enough to parry most of his moves.

An hour later, the fighting still continued. Both combatants, Braskar and the Dragon, were covered in slashes and a massive pool of blood surrounded the battle. Both knew that no matter the outcome, neither would live. However, this dampened their spirits not one bit, and the battle still raged on. Finally, enough of the dragon’s scales had fallen off that its throat was open. Seizing the opportunity, Braskar thrust his sword upwards through the neck of the great beast. It slowly staggered for a brief time, but then it came crashing down. Braskar then began to walk away from the fight.

A mere 100 feet away from the battle, Braskar collapsed to his knees. Surrounded by a wall of flames, Braskar stared blankly into the fires. Suddenly, the ghostly figure which had given him the sword and armor appeared. Braskar then realized that he was in the very spot that the fair maiden he had tried to rescue had fallen. It then dawned upon him that the ghostly figure before him WAS the maiden. He then opened his mouth to utter his last words:

“Through fire and hazard I have come to thee.”

Tenarius

21-11-2004, 01:51

I'll write something a bit later when I get some spare time.

Isselmere

21-11-2004, 09:23

[OOC: Cursing starts from the first line. You've been warned.]

No doubt about it, I hate this fucking city.

We’ve been here for three days. I know this neighbourhood like the back of the corporal’s helmet. At least until his head was blown off yesterday in that mortar attack.

The senior corporal managed to secure us a lovely bombed out bedsit on the east end of our patrol area, a good four blocks from the remnants of our IFV. We lost that on our first day here. Some daft prick of an Arty numpty decided it would be great fun to shoot rockets loaded with submunitions into the old local market. At the time, the platoon sergeant was picking out some little shits who’d been firing RPGs at us, one of which had damaged the IFV’s optics. So there he was, crouching in the command hatch, taking the occasional potshot with the pintel-mounted GPMG directing the gunner’s fire when one of the submunitions falls into the fucking hatch. Now, the Badger is a fine vehicle: it’s sturdy, has great mobility, and is fairly quick. Drop a 45-kg submunition down an open hatch, well, bluntly, you’re right fucked. The sergeant was driven back through the hatch where the round touched off the 30mm ammo and a pair of Emu [anti-tank missile] reloads.

I’ve been appointed to the stunning kitchenette, gazing out the window frame for targets of opportunity for our sniper and AT gunner. Lice have made me their permanent home. It takes all my willpower and the numbing fear of the possibility of a new attack not to scratch every hairy place on my body until they bleed. Automatic fire can be heard breaking out everywhere, from the heavy crump, crump of the autocannons, to the high-speed rat-tat-tat of the GPMGs and the whizz of the LMGs. Our own machine gunners are bored senseless, unable to open up unless we encounter a direct assault. How I hate this city.

We’re only supposed to spend a week on the front line, per regulations. None of us is certain any of us will survive seven days, and even if we do, that HQ won’t extend our stay to two weeks.

I see an enemy soldier look quickly out a window about 250 metres away and, without looking away from the window myself, indicate the range and position to the grenadier who relays it to the sniper. Unfortunately for a sniper, Kenny has no sense of direction, so I have to paint the target with a laser, potentially revealing our position. From the grimace on the corporal’s face, I can tell I’m not the only one who suspects Kenny’s on their side. But within seconds of lasing the target area, I receive the signal to stop.

Waiting for the crack of the sniper’s bullet is the worst. Mostly because you can never be certain you’re not the target. Kenny’s a good two feet from the window frame so the threats of dust disturbed from firing or reflections from his scope revealing our position are minimal. Still, it’s all very unnerving.

Finally, I see a head pop out the window just before it’s forced backward and the body stumbles. A month ago, I would have thrown up at the sight, but now... now, there’s nothing.

Fuck, I hate this city.

Armandian Cheese

22-11-2004, 05:54

This is a little different, since I wrote it as a script for my Speech and Debate team. Still, I think it's alright.
The Council Of Very Bad Things That Hurt Many People That Are Good
By Armand Domalewski
Petrov: Velcome, Velcome my comrades. Join me in my communistic mission to restore MOTHER RUSSIA TO HER FORMER GLORY!!! MWA! HA! HA! HA!
Master Pain: Nyaaaa! Sounds like fun! But….where am I? Who are you? Is there a Radio Shack nearby? Cause I’m hungry for some loooove! NYA!
George Buschanowski: What in tarnation is goin’ on in here? Waitress! Get me two bottles of whiskey mixed in with the blended remains of panda gluteus maximus!

Introduction
What does an insane Russian Communist, a Chinese kung fu master whose distinguishing traits include a penchant for swinging a chain around while standing on a waterfall and a strange need to yell “NYAAA!” every 5 seconds, a Texas car salesman, and a cheap knock off of Agent Smith?.....Ehhhh….weeeellll…I’m not…quite sure actually…Why don’t you find out for yourself? We report, you decide! Or, something like that…
THE COUNCIL OF VERY BAD THINGS THAT HURT MANY PEOPLE THAT ARE GOOD By Armand Domalewski

Petrov: What are you talking about? There iz no vaitress here!
George: But, what’s that thing? (Points)
Petrov: That’s a lamp.
George: Gosh darn it…and it was so purty…(starts grooming himself)…think she’ll still go on a date with me?
Petrov: It’s a LAMP! A friggin’ lamp! You CAN’T FALL IN LOVE WITH A LAMP!
George: How dare you judge our alternative life style! Nothing matters as long as we love each other! (Turns to lamp, holds it in his arms, and puckers lips) I love you baby? Don’t you love me too?
Petrov: ARGGGGG!! Drop the lamp now, capitalistic pig dog, (Pulls out gun) or I’ll shatter your family jewels!
George: (Drops lamp, covers family jewels) Not my family jewels! I’ll do anything to save my family jewels! I’ll even give you a discount at my used my car lot! Everything must go! GO! GO! Our prices are LOW! LOW! LOW! Look at these BEAUUUUTTIIIIFUUUL 1847 Chevy Road Warrior, only used once as a suicide truck in Palestine, now going for only FIVE DOLLARS! ONLY FIIIVE DOLLARS! American dollars, mind you, not filthy Canadian dollars. SO come on down to George W Bush----
Petrov: What? The American President?
George: ----chanowski’s used car lot! We’ve got…
Petrov: Shut up! I don’t want your filthy cars!
George: But...
Petrov: No BUTS!
Master Pain: No buts, no nuts, no coconuts! NYA!!!
George: …..
Petrov: Let us get on with it! My name is Borislav Petrov, and I hope to restore Russia to….IT’S FORMER COMMUNISTIC GLORY!!!!
Master Pain: But why do you bring me, Master Pain, here? I am only a simple man who enjoys swinging an iron claw on a chain around on a waterfall. I also enjoy naps, which your secret agents interrupted. I don’t like that. I need my nappy time…
Petrov: Eeet eez very zimple, my comrades. We must utilize George’s supply of cheap, cars, Master Pain’s…
Master Pain: Correction. I will no longer be known as Master Pain, for I am a nice man, with happy feelings. All of the time. So, I shall be called…Betty.
Petrov: Isn’t Betty a girl’s a name?
Betty: Shut up or I’ll cut off your big toe! NYAAAA! NYAAAA!
George: Howdy! Yodeleeehoooo!
George and Betty sing and boogy down.
Petrov: Shut! Up! Shut up! Shut up, you son of a pig! SHUT UP!
Betty: Look’s like somebody’s a little cranky. Let me tell you a joke. What do you get when cross a bungee cord and an owl?
George: How in darn tootin’ am I supposed to know? All I know is how to sell cars at LOW, LOW, LOW prices! Oh yeah, and I make a mean rat stew. So, what do you get?
Betty: MY ASS! HA! HA! HA! HA! NYA! (Silence) Laugh, you fools! Laugh, I say! (They begin to laugh) ENOUGH!
Petrov: Listen!!! Come closer and I shall reveal my glorious plan! Pssssst…psssttt…
Betty: Man, I can’t understand what you’re saying. You’re like, just making weird sounds like, psst psst or, something man.
Petrov: Sorry my comrades, a foolish bourgeois fly flew into my throat. First, I must introduce you to someone. I will hurl this pellet onto the ground, so that my minion may come and serve the GLORY OF MOTHER RUSSIA! (Hurls pellet onto the ground, and it explodes.) Peeewwww, boooom, cshhhhh…
Betty: Ummm….what are you doing? Do, you, like need a glass of water or something?
Petrov: No…I was just doing the sound effects. Now, watch, as my glorious creation rises! MWA! HA! HA! HA! (Chokes, starts coughing. Coughs out hairball.)
Betty: Eww…
George: Daaaammmmnnn….That’s the biggest hairball I saw since my aunt coughed up a 2 foot sucker last month…
Petrov: I’m sorry about that inconvenience…it’s…it’s a glandular problem…anyway, RISE MY MINION!
Agent Jones crouches, rises up, and lowers his sun glasses.
Petrov: I present to you…AGENT JONES!!
Agent Jones: Mr. Anderson…
Betty: Actually, the name’s Betty. (Extends his hand) Nice to make your…acquaintance. NYAAAA!!!!
Agent Jones: I know your name, Betty. I was simply following a code in my programming. Following the inevitable. For it is inevitable. You cannot escape it, and…
Petrov: SILENCE AGENT! I’m very sorry about that comrades. You see, I followed the ancient Soviet tradition of making crappy knock offs of American products. That’s why he tends to call everybody “Mr. Anderson” and why he spouts stupid philosophical mumbo jumbo. Anyway, we will use millions of his clones who will drive George’s cars and will be led by the combat genius, Master Pai---
Betty: Betty!
Petrov: I mean, Betty, in an assault on Moscow, the capital of Russia, so we may restore Mother Russia to it’s COMMUNISTIC GLORY!!!!
George: Wait just one durn minute…what’s in it for us?
Petrov: After we conquer Russia, we shall produce more Agent Jones’ and take OVER THE WORLD!!!!
Betty: Will I get cup cakes? I do like cup cakes you know. I like ‘em a lot. Nyaaaa…
Petrov: Yes, you will get cup cakes…anything else?
Betty: Can I have France?
Petrov: Fine. I have no stomach for weak, stupid frog eaters.
Betty: Really? Stinky pits and all?
Petrov: YES!
Betty: I like this plan. Nya. Hahahahah. It is EVIL, it is so EVIL. It is a bad, bad plan that will hurt many people….who are good. I think it’s great that it’s so bad. I’m in man. Like, let’s rock. And roll. All day long. Sweet Suzy.
George: I’ll help you…IF I get permission to turn Australia into the biggest damn KFC the world has ever seen!
Petrov: Whatever you wish.
George: Then let’s get started pardner. YEEEEHHHHAAAWWWWWWWWWWW!!!
Agent Jones: Sir…
Petorv: Vat is it, Agent Jones?
Agent Jones: Well, what will you name yourselves?
Petrov: Vat do you mean?
Agent Jones: Well, every self respecting group of maniacal super villains bent on world domination needs a cool name. It’s written right here in the Evil Super Villain Constitution.
Petrov: So I see…
George: How about we call ourselves the….Texas Chicken Rangers!
Petrov: How about…not. Hmmm….we shall be Russian Communistic Revolutionaries Of The Glorious Workers Opposed To Capitalistic Oppression!
Betty: No…that name is stupid and smells like my grandmother’s pickled boxer shorts…we shall be… THE COUNCIL OF… VERY BAD…. THINGS THAT… HURT MANY PEOPLE… THAT ARE GOOD!!!!!|
(celebrate by boogying.)
Petrov: Let us go! And ACHIEVE OUR DESTINY!!!
(They run, get into a car, and drive off.)
Petrov: I see the enemy…(talks into cell phone)…Agent Jones’, begin operation RED PICKLES!!
George: But…that’s just an old granny…
(Agent Jones’ fire out of their car windows. )
Granny: Sweet Christmas! It’s stupid fresh! (she does Neo dodge, but then gets shot and dies.)
Betty: Nyaaa! A bunch of guys in red with big guns are coming…
Petrov: The traitorous military swine! Wipe them out! All of them!
Betty: I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them dead. Like with, with a, like a rock or something. Like a, like a stone.
(Battle ensues. Agents fire from machine guns and fight Russian troops, Betty attacks with a rock, a chain with a claw <”I’m swingin’ my chain, just swingin’ my chain” “I’m going to teach you a valuable lesson about iron claws….They HURT LIKE CRAP, MAN!”>, and by farting, and George uses a lasso, guns, <slow mo matrix style>, and by Yee-Hawing extremely loudly.)
Agent Jones: Sir, we have secured the perimeter. All enemy humans have been eliminated. Moscow is yours.
Petrov: Excellent….(steeples fingers)…Most excellent…
Betty: (Points to the sky) What’s that?
George: It’s a bird!
Agent Jones: It’s a plane!
Petrov: No…it’s….George W. Bush!!!
George Bush: Howdy. I heard about you commie bastards messin’ around here, so I decided to come and beat you up. Now, when you girls are done kissin’, I’ve got some ASS KICKIN’ FOR YA! (Gets into battle position.)
George: Gosh durn it, there’s only room enough for one Texas moron here! Draw!
Betty: Ooh, I like drawing! Can we draw a chicken? Chicken go cluck cluck, cow go moo, piggy go *snort snort*, how about you? Gonna be an animal just like you! Tweet tweet, I’m just a birdy too!
Bush: I don’t think he means that kind of drawin, although your song was very entertaining and highly educational.
George: DRAW! I SAY! DRAW! (Pulls out guns)
Bush: (Dodges in slow mo.) I need help…(Pulls out cell phone.) Hello? Mr. T? Yeah, I need you bust up some fools with your helluva fast van.
George: Huh? (Looks up) What’s that big shadow above my head? IT’S A VAN! YAAA!
Betty: Wow…he just, like, got crushed by a van that fell out the sky…you don’t see that everyday….
Bush: And it’s not just any van…It’s Mr. T’s helluva fast van foo’!
Mr. T: That’s right suckas! Me and my van just taught this foo the meanin’ of PAIN! I pity the foo’! I gotta go build a youth centa, Bush, so remember kids, drink milk!
Petrov: George has been defeated…
Bush: Now to finish you off…I will use…the Shwartz! (ignites a lightsaber blade)
Betty: No matter…If you’ve got an ass I’ll kick it! NYAAAA!!! (ignites lightsaber blade)
Bush: I see you’re Schwartz is as long as mine…let’s see how you handle it! (they duel)
Bush: I’ve just realized something…
Betty: What?
Bush: This is extremely stupid. Time to die, you son of a female dog! (shoots Betty. Betty collapses in a long, overwrought, melodramatic sequence.)
Bush: Now it’s your turn, you commie pinko bastard! I will use….the boxing glove…of JUSTICE!!!
Petrov: You know, that’s really cliché.
Bush: (Punches Petrov in the face.)
Bush: I have achieved victory in the name of FREEDOM!
Betty: Before you horribly maul us and chop up our bodies into little bits which will be sent all across the US and used as food seasonings---
Bush: Get on with it!
(Petrov gets up.)
Betty: Well, what does the red button on the back of Agent Jones’ head do? Cause, I like, kinda pushed it or something.
Bush: Let’s see what the label says…
Petrov: It says…SELF DESTRUCT?!?!?!
They all look at each other. They scream and run away.

THE END

Copyright By Armand Domalewski 2004
Published By World Domination Unlimited Ltd. ©

Tioszaea

22-11-2004, 18:31

I've been waiting for something like this to come up! :D

:mad: <WARNING> This work contains some gruesome details and such! <WARNING> :mad:

Ahem..

In an alleyway, between two long-forgotten warehouses, therein lied a dumpster at Dead End, as it was known. The air was stale, and putrid, filled with remnants of the dark cities’ waste. The walls were stained, redder with blood than the rusted areas that dotted it, though it was all tainted crimson in the sunset light. There was a movement, and something flew down from above. It was a tall figure, wrapped in a cold, black cape, with the same color pants torn in many places, where the pale skin showed beneath it. It barely shook from the impact of a ten-foot drop. On its shoulder it wore a symbol of a faded purple star surrounded by a discolored white circle. High-topped boots covered its feet. The figure rose from the ground like an inhuman shadow, with more of an aura that inspired fear than of authority.

It immediately checked its surroundings, slowly walking out of the alleyway with much practiced patience, keeping close to the steel walls. A black cowl covered its face, and hid it from view, as its stayed to the side. It was an ill-used street that was between the figure, and dinner. It chuckled to itself.

“Almost too easy”, it whispered, with a now distinguishable masculine voice. He stopped at the end of the alleyway, surveyed the scene, waited, then darted for the other end that beheld another warehouse that was in unusually fine repair. No rust or blood was scattered on its walls, and the metal outsides were newly polished. Only a high, metal wire fence protected it, or so it seemed. The shadowed man took aim, gauging the distance he would have to run. Then, with inhuman speed it took off, leaping as he did. The figure rose up to the top of the perimeter fence, using his gloved hand to vault over the top. The leap itself was extraordinary, but the moment he touched it, an alarm sounded loud and keen. And the man almost lost his balance, sprawling out in midair. Landing with a definite thud, he dashed from the fence. He was in, although he had lost the element of surprise.

Swearing under his breath, he slammed the door open, not taking any extra precautions. By only speed alone would he win. He stopped only once, to take in his surroundings. Then he swore again, as he realized they were already upon him. Ten Cyborg Police Units, that was one hundred of them, armed to the teeth with the latest high-tech weaponry, only recently upgraded. The mechanical menaces blocked the exit and guarded the entrance, leaving him halfway in between. They were all over the place; the warehouse was storming with them. The upright, rigid, half human, half machine foot soldiers of the Government Protectorate. The cloaked rogue sighed, with more of annoyance than anything.

The rebel took action quickly, drawing a plasmatic from a hidden holster in his belt. He threw himself forward and down as bullets whizzed by where he had been only a heartbeat before. With extremely precise marksmanship, the figure fired off seven quick shots, taking down seven of the cyborgs. Then, he hastily drew a second rapid-fire weapon, and twelve more fell with smoldering craters piercing straight through their heads. They were dead before they hit the ground.

Another round of glinting bullets were fired at the man, but he activated a mechanical device attached to his wrist, which threw up a golden force field around his figure. But this soon dissipated with the on-coming barrage of bullets, and the dark figure was nearly struck. He knew the end was near, unless he did something about it. In the score of heartbeats that followed, he slew seventeen more. But there were still too many of them.

The man decidedly ripped off his war-torn gloves. His hands were human enough, with a few calluses, and only one thing stood out. It was the large, circular, mouth-like hole in the center of his palm. His hand twitched once, and a large hose of biological nightmare erupted from the hole, with a clawed appendage on the end. The three protrusions of bone immediately began to seek out potential prey, and easily found it, severing arms and legs, and sometimes heads.

The man’s left hand, however, reacted differently. It possessed the same mouth-like tunnel, but instead of a rope of tissue, it began spewing crimson acid that disturbingly resembled blood. On contact, it quickly melted skin and armor alike with a definite hiss. The warehouse was soon filled with the painful screams of the men and women of the Protectorate. Some were clutching where their eyes once were, though now they were just bleeding empty sockets. Others were looking horridly at their missing limbs. The lucky ones died instantly, but many were doomed to a long, painful and torturous death. The man quickly took what he came for, which was ironically just simple food. This is what the war had come to. Brave souls had to die for others just to feed, and some risked their lives to get the most precious thing of all: food. Sustenance ran in alarmingly short supply, and the poorer parts of the world starved to death in the disease-ridden streets. Life, as it was now, was terrible, and only the rich could afford luxuries such as meat and vegetables. Most of the food came in the form of unsightly gruel. Disgusting, but necessary.

The figure exited the building to the evening twilight. In the wan light, he appeared as nothing more than a shadow.

This is what the world has come to, he thought to himself bitterly.

Tioszaea

22-11-2004, 18:49

Tioszaea

22-11-2004, 20:27

I really hope some more people get to posting on this; some of these stories are really great!! COME ON PEOPLE!! :headbang: :mp5:

:( :sniper:

Layarteb

22-11-2004, 20:49

I have added a Part III to The Knight of Dark Chaos (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=365583) please check it out. This is certainly a very intensive plot.

Tioszaea

22-11-2004, 21:13

I have added a Part III to The Knight of Dark Chaos (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=365583) please check it out. This is certainly a very intensive plot.

Keep it coming! :D

Layarteb

22-11-2004, 21:20

Keep it coming! :D

Thanks. If you like it give it a vote rating!

Wirraway

23-11-2004, 04:06

This is from an RP I did with Generic, Borman, Doomingsland and Zerbia, hoep you like it.

It was like a scene from the 7th circle of hell, an apocalyptic battleground where two fanatical forces had fought to their deaths. Blood, innards and mangled bodies lay half frozen on the hard ground. Men died together locked in a final, morbid embrace.

"My lord, what in god's name happened here." muttered a marine

The company continued onwards through this valley of destruction and hate. A cool wind began to whip up, ruffling the torn and destroyed uniforms of the dead. It was eerily quiet, the quiet of the dead. The marines began to look around nervously and shift with apprehension, everyone suddenly felt a strong urge to leave this desecrated land.

The captain radioed back to Albus

"All clear here, just an old battlefield, were heading back."

The company receeded in the distance as they toiled up the steep slope back to the comrades.

A Doomingslandian with a knife through his head could be seen, his hands wrapped around the neck of a Zerbian soldier who he had taken with him.

Decapitated bodies littered the frozen tundra, the severed heads lying close by, the rage of battle still visible on their face.

A lone crow settled down again to finish his meal.

The war continued on.

The company made it’s way back to hastily erected camp at the base of the mountain and re-counted what they had seen.

Albus, after being told of the battlefield, decided to see for himself how the brave men of Doomingsland had made the supreme sacrifice. After viewing the carnage and utter determination of both sides to win he felt a grudging respect for the Zerbians as well.

Must have been fanatics, only fanatics could do this, could fight to the last man, literally.

He shivered involuntarily as the wind picked up again, whistling through the rocky valley.

They deserve a warriors burial, it’s the least we can do recognize their sacrifice.

"Get me the mortuary brigade"

Shortly thereafter a group of haggard and hollow looking men, ex-convicts, slowly made their way into the valley. Their hunched shoulders and baggy eyes told the story of bloody war.

"Bury these Doomingslandians properly, we will not leave them out to freeze and be eaten by animals. I want a mass grave for the Zerbians, no use in digging individual ones."

The brigade went about their gruesome task, lifting up frozen body parts and torso's and attempting to match them up with their rightful owner. It was hard going digging graves in the frozen ground but eventually all the Doomingslandians had been put to rest.

Albus ordered a 21 gun salute for their fallen comrades. Not wanting to waste any more time on attempting to bury soldiers, especially enemy ones, the brigade doused the Zerbians in gasoline and set them alight.

The Wirrawayans continued to move on Deskograd as a pillar of black smoke and burning flesh rose in the distance, the only reminder of the terrible battle that was waged there.

Tioszaea

24-11-2004, 03:16

Tioszaea

24-11-2004, 03:26

I'm beginning to think I have too much time on my hands..

Wirraway

24-11-2004, 03:29

An interesting composition. Very.. ominous, with a hint of sorrowful respect. Kudos! :)

Thanks, I enjoyed reading yours as well.

Downser

24-11-2004, 03:43

Copyright 2004 K.Downs all use of this piece of writing may not be used without written consent of the author.

Warning: Graphic violence and some language included...

The Main Street view stretched out across from the apartment 32-D window of New York City. Jackson Brown sat on the edge of his beige sofa with his eyes shut tightly. Rough day, he thought as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. His suit was wrinkled and smelled of coffee. It was another sign that made him reminisce such a pathetic day. He had just returned from work at the southern state taxing firm. He had such a bad headache he couldn’t recollect today’s events. Had he been drinking? Nothing seemed to go right anymore…

Brown was about to roll off the couch in exhaustion when the phone rang. “Son of a--” He cut himself off and deliberately rolled off the couch. He hit the floor with a loud whump and reached up to the nightstand for the phone. He felt around the stand, and by now it was the third ring. When he finally found the phone he yanked it up to his ear.

“Talk to me.” He said rudely.
“Is this Mr. Jackson Brown?” A shrill yet electronically disguised voice replied eagerly.
“…Maybe.” Brown replied slowly. The person on the other line sounded very eerie.
“Would you like to take a stab at my name?” The man had turned off the electronic voice disguise once Jackson was confirmed to be the one on the other line.
“Not really—listen; I really don’t have the time for this.”
“Time for what?” The quick and almost obsessive voice responded.
“Your antics,”
“Well don’t you worry, because I have all the time in the world.”

The phone cut off and Brown heard a loud crash in the kitchen. He slowly picked the phone up and jumped to his feet. Must be the neighbors banging on the walls, he thought. Another crash soon followed and this time he became alarmed. Brown hung up the phone and inched toward the kitchen. The air had the stench of sitting urine. His heart racing, Brown reached the stool by the countertop. What was around the corner was too overwhelming to think about. He heard another loud crash and jumped to the sound as his adrenaline surged. He moved faster and turned the corner. His eyes opened wide with fear.

Nothing… he thought with an abrasive sigh…nothing but a rolling pot on the floor and the stench of urine coming from an abyss of darkness through a doorway. The two way door in front of him was swinging ajar. His head hurt and all he wanted to do was rest…but he couldn’t--especially not with the stench of piss and odd noises echoing through the apartment…

The distance between him and the door stretched out in front of him. It led to the bathroom; what was behind it—if anything--was the key. But he couldn’t do anything in his state and condition. Not without a weapon, timing and a hint of luck.

Brown stepped back from the door and reached for his only steak knife. He had used it the night before at dinner without any intention of this predicament…Suddenly, another crash echoed past the door and rattled his mind. This time it sounded like something large and made of glass. He saw footsteps under the doorway and heard a muffled cackle as he moved forward. Arms quivering, he brought the knife in front of him, blade up.

Before he knew it, he had his hand on the door and was pushing it forward rapidly. Before he fully opened the door, however, Brown was pushed back by the door in the opposite direction.

The force was incredible. The door exploded into splinters when it hit the cabinet off its hinges. He screamed in agony realizing it had snapped his wrist. He kept falling in what seemed like an eternity. Seconds turned to minutes; hours; months; years. Brown came back to reality when he hit the ground. He screeched like a banshee the second the knife pierced his precious skin. Deeper it went until it hit solid bone.

An enormous man towered over him with a pugnacious grin. His appearance was horrifying. His face, especially around the eyes, was a bubbly wasteland of scars. His head was shaved and his jaw large. His bulging neck was a perfect match to his masculine chest and bulging biceps. His arms were covered in blood and he smelled of urine. His black shirt was stained with a faint and dry red, as well as his jeans. His face twitched on an interval of seconds, which scared Brown the most. He did not recognize the psychopath.

“Jackie,” the man said in a toneless voice and a toothy grin. “We meet again.”
“S-…so I see…” He played along.
Out of nowhere, the grin on the stranger’s face disappeared and he kicked Brown with his boot to the shin. He roared in agony and clutched his leg.
“You stupid f*ck. You don’t remember me!” Brown backed up in a crabwalk as the figure towered even more so over him.
“I do! I do I swe—” he coughed and wheezed violently. “I swear!”
“Do you really?” The stranger was pondering what he wanted to do next.
“Yes!” Brown crawled back to the window and tried to get himself up off the floor. He slumped back over and began coughing a mix of saliva and blood.

“Good. Get up.” Brown struggled in an attempt to meet the demand and crawled to the couch for support while wincing at the smell. He still couldn’t do it and fell to his knees while spraying more blood. He still hadn’t yet taken the knife out of his arm.

“I said get the hell up!” The man stomped toward him and grabbed him by the collar. He yanked Brown up to his feet and hurled him over the sofa. He landed on the nightstand in a loud crash and broke just about everything on and in it.

Brown lay there, on the floor, in incredible pain. His blood dripped and soaked through his clothing and his mouth and nose spewing it. The knife lay inches from his head. It didn’t matter though, because the pool of blood swirling and swishing around in his bleeding mouth was more distracting. He suspected he had chipped a few teeth, too. His lips creased open in a desperate attempt to speak, but the only thing he had control over was his eyes. Pain wasn’t his only paralysis…there was a sudden silence. His eyes shifted around the room. It was empty.

Poor Jackson Brown lay there, waiting for his fate; waiting for his misery to be put to an end by that brute. If anything, he wanted to die painlessly. Unfortunately, he heard nothing. The man had left, maybe even left him to die.

Suddenly, Brown realized now was his chance to survive. Every ounce of strength and adrenaline was needed to pull off this one. He put his palms flat on the floor and pushed as hard as he could. Hope shined in his eyes once he realized he could reach the phone. His bloody hands hugged it as he punched the numbers. Just three, Jack, three measly numbers and then you’re allowed to pass out cold. Thoughts and more hope raced through his mind as each key was punched. Nine…One…One…

Too weary to even lay back, Brown sat in the same position, waiting to hear a ring. All he heard was a click—then a dial tone. Then it hit him…the fear was back again.

As soon as realization hit him, Brown felt a sharp explosion on his spine and lurched forward in pain. He heard shards of an object fall behind him, and something soak and drip down his stained shirt. He assumed it was blood as he lay back moaning. He saw the stranger coming toward him as he inspected what was under him. Some glass and some blood, what else is new, he thought. He looked a bit closer and realized the blood wasn’t thick at all. It was mixed with something—some kind of alcohol…but what—

Then it hit him much harder. A bottle of beer had shattered on his back! He tried to think of the past day and how alcohol might have made him forget. Still weary, he looked at the man and tried to picture him as someone he knew.

“Having fun?” The brute grinned. He picked Jackson up by the ankle and dragged him to God knows where. Yet Brown was still thinking, picturing. Oh my God, he realized. It was that big clumsy goof at work everyone made fun of! What was his name though…Mike, Murray…his name was Murphy! Murphy something…Brown didn’t recall any last name. He looked up at Murphy. He was so big; how could he have not noticed! It was Murphy without his glasses, hair and beard! But why was this man trying to slowly torture him to death?

“Murphy!” he coughed. The second that word came from his mouth he felt his ankle drop to the ground. Murphy had stopped and was turning around slowly. A big, toothy and evil smile produced upon his face. He then immediately frowned.

“Finally, you poor bastard. I thought you were going to die of blood loss before you remembered my name.”

“Murphy…I’m sorry for what me and the guys did. We always made—” Brown coughed and then continued, “made fun of you because we had nothing better to do. We needed to feel better about ourselves.”
“Shut the hell up, Jacko. That’s not an issue at this point.”

Brown frowned, “Then what the hell did I do to you?” Without saying a word, Murphy unzipped his pants and pulled out his package. He began urinating all over Jackson. Jackson Brown recoiled in disgust and kept thinking. His mind was being refreshed. Then, for the millionth time, it hit him again.

He remembered being drunk and having some fun with his co-workers. He also remembered them crowded around in a circle, all touching something he couldn’t see. Then they moved to the side so Brown could see the target of amusement. It was Murphy! The brute was whimpering like a child and whining for them to stop playing games. He remembered the poor man saying “None of us have time for this!” to which received “Don’t worry Murph, we have all the time in the world.” He kept thinking…then what did he do?

Murphy had just finished urinating on him. That was it! He was so damned drunk he took a leak all over the big man! What had come over him?

“I’m sorry, Murphy! I truly am! I was very drunk!”
Murphy frowned, “My reasons for this will be forever hidden, Jackie. So do me a favor and make it easy for yourself.” With that, Brown shut his eyes tightly, waiting for the end.

His killer was almost ready to leave, but he had forgotten something behind the counter. Poor Brown still had his eyes shut, still waiting for the end. After a minute, he wondered what was going on. He slowly opened his eyes and saw the dark silhouette of his killer. All he could see was the man’s eyes and pristine white grin.

And at that instant, the brute quickly brought the axe down toward Brown’s screaming face and fled the scene forever, without a trace of evidence.

Tioszaea

27-11-2004, 02:27

"Not really—listen; I really don’t have the time for this.”
“Time for what?” The quick and almost obsessive voice responded.
“Your antics,”
“Well don’t you worry, because I have all the time in the world.”

“None of us have time for this!” to which received “Don’t worry Murph, we have all the time in the world.” He kept thinking…then what did he do?

Oh, the irony. ;)

Tioszaea

27-11-2004, 02:45

Thanks, I enjoyed reading yours as well.

Thanks! I could post the prologue, if you want, but it isn't as good and might be a little confusing for some.

-=[UPDATE]=-

Ok, the prologue sucks, and I'd have to rewrite half of it for it to be presentable, heh. Maybe when I have the time, I will.

Downser

29-11-2004, 04:11

Oh, the irony. ;)

I know, I didn't think anyone would actually notice that :D

Kordo

30-11-2004, 00:23

Hmmmm. A Writing Challenge eh? I guess some of my better work (and I use that term loosly) can be found here:

http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=7498146

Any questions/comments or opinions are welcome!

Barbarosea

30-11-2004, 05:29

The Wall
A short story by Brett C*****

“Grandpa, what’s over there?” I asked one day, I was but five. His gaze gradually shifted to the vast open expanse. In the very distance, I could see a faint black. He could not, but he knew, he knew what I saw. He slowly looked down; he let the silence sink in. He then raised his head, and looked at me. In his eyes I could see the wisdom of the past, the pain, misery, the agony. He drew a long breath, then his mouth opened, as he spoke, “Son, that is a tale of long ago, it would take long to explain, do you really want to know?” He replied rather feverishly. I pleaded with him, “Yes grandpa, I do!” He sighed once again; he was recounting the past. “Very well, but you must keep one thing in mind,” he said in a stern tone, “the things that went on before my time I do not agree with, and neither should you. Now, as I began, we must go back to long ago, to the time before all this,” he gestured at the city line, “before all that, there were two villages…”
* * *

“…one was right where we are now. The other was about where Savannah is now. But they didn’t know of each other. No, they led their own lives, just modestly, working as a village. I will start with the one where Savannah is. They were called the Black. The Black was a peaceful village, and they weren’t interested in anything but their village and tradition. They were simple people, not judging each other, not spreading gossip. They worked hard, and traded fairly. They had a religion that they followed very closely. It was called Thristism. The teachings were very close to ours, of GOD and such. But they had people who GOD would talk through, called Prophets. These people were such that, GOD gave them messages to the people, and they would tell them. They also listened to the past and the prophecies of then. One was that they could not cross the wall, or the wrath of evil would be broken upon the world. They obeyed these with fear and respect. That was the extent of the Black.” Grandpa took a sigh and looked out the window. “That black you see, that is the wall that they were not allowed to pass. Now, let’s go the other village. They were called the White. They were slightly more arrogant. They were, in a way, snotty, and there was a money system in place. Many local “markets” were centers for gossip. They also followed a religion, which they called Nitcism, but they followed loosely. In reality, it was the same as Thristism, but followed and interpreted very differently. They were curios at this wall that was in place. One day they decided that Nitcism was wrong, and the other side of the wall wasn’t bad. So, at nightfall one day, they sent a couple scouts over to figure out what was on the other side. Once on the wall, they found out it was about 50 paces wide. The scouts were nervous at what laid in wait at the other side, but continued on. Once on the other side, they saw a fire in the distance. They walked that way, and once they figured out that there was a village, they crept to the edge. The first thing they saw was a person hurrying out of their house, toward the fire. The fire was in the middle of the village, but they dare not get any closer. As they peered, they saw humans, just like us, talking around the fire, but what they saw shocked them. The skin on these people was charred, but they didn’t seem hurt. The scouts looked in disbelief. They were seeing people with black skin! This was amazing to them, so they returned home as soon as possible. They scaled the wall and dashed back to the village. They went to the leaders houses, and woke them for an emergency meeting. The leaders all gathered in their high chambers and listened as the horrified scouts told their tale. The leaders were shocked. The five of then started conferencing, and for the most part, they were excited with what they had found. Except for one, Nicholai, the head of the village. He called for a royal huddle, and dismissed the scouts to wait outside. He then told the other leaders that this was not good. They didn’t know why Nicholai was being like this, and tried to convince him that this in fact was a good thing. But Nicholai, being the only person in the village to have read the “Leader” scroll, told that it told of death and destruction from the “charred-skinned”. They almost fainted. They had to believe him, but they didn’t know why this didn’t feel right. The next morning, Nicholai called a town meeting, and convinced them that they needed to tear the village apart, because of the scrolls. Nicholai was lying the whole time, but there was a reason. Nicholai was a man with a fear of being over thrown. He felt threatened by these people, on the sole factor that they were different. He felt a hatred for them, and he fed it until it consumed his thoughts. By then, he had rallied them to arms. The fires churned bright, as swords were forged, and armor hammered. Within two weeks, they were ready. They stormed the wall, and came over it yelling and screaming, weapons in hand, flames ablaze. The town was burnt, the people killed, but some escaped, some were fleeing towards the wall. The White turned around and followed them back to their village. There, they took them prisoner. The village was enraged with these people, and Nicholai only fueled the fire. They then proceeded to kill off their prisoners. They then went on with life, and prospered into what we are today.” Grandpa finished. “Now, Samuel, listen good to what I’m going to tell you. This was wrong, and many people hate what we did to them. That was a very wrong thing, and instead of embracing the difference they saw, Nicholai felt threatened by them, and so he killed them.” With that Grandpa got up and went into the kitchen to ask Mom what was for dinner. I sat there, astounded by what hatred can drive people to do.

Tioszaea

30-11-2004, 14:59

Nicholai's speech was quite long,
Thus, the big fight was on.
They scaled the wall,
And killed all they saw,
But in all their hearts they knew it was wrong.

Skepticism

01-12-2004, 05:37

Thanks. If you like it give it a vote rating!

The only thing I would suggest is less unnecessary detail. It is, IMHO, a better read to use adjectives instead of numbers. Plus, it contrasts with your punchy, simple prose style. Aside of that, it's pretty good.

Also in my opinion, the true measure of writing ability is not what one can do with many words, but the crafting of a relative handful into a cogent story. The same with dialogue; using tons only makes the story worse unless you have already learned very well how to manage a little.

For my part, this is something I wrote after learning a particular piece of American history which I found incredible.

7777777Corporal Peter Daniels was, to be quite frank, a badass. Everyone in the barracks knew and accepted this fact, as well as the myriad bonuses – small, but telling – entailed by the position. The full jungle camo outfit, lighter and more comfortable, and not to mention less attention-grabbing than the standard fatigues; instead of the heavy, neck-wearying steel pot helmet that roasted your brain during the day and perfectly directed streams of icy water straight down the spine during the rains, he sported a simple boonie hat that shielded him from sun and monsoon both. When squads mustered to patrol the perimeter, or check for mines, or unload thousands of pounds of food and ammunition and the infinite odds and ends required for any army to operate in enemy territory – all of the unpleasant, inglorious, yet utterly essential activities of the soldier, in short – Daniels was exempt. He got to choose his weapons and equipment, was shown respect from officers who far outranked him, and absolutely never took the brunt of jokes, even if he was short and scrawny, falling a whole head under virtually everyone else; virtually emaciated, for someone fresh out of the richest, most well-fed country on Earth. Indeed, Corporal Daniels drew the envy of every other soldier at Firebase New Mexico, and any other grunt would gladly – eagerly – switched places with him. That is, until he got around to doing the single thing that had become “his job;” until he headed out into the jungle, and then into the tunnels.

7777777They called themselves the Tunnel Rats, a band of volunteers intrepid almost to insanity, volunteering to crawl, inch by inch, through the literal miles of tunnels holing the rain forest soil, a system of strongholds built by the Viet Cong, impervious to air assault, booby-trapped and camouflaged to a fare-thee-well. Camp duty was easy enough, sure – until the once or twice every week when it came time to take a turn through the tunnels. In his previous life, Daniels had worked in a West Virginia coal mine; his short stature served him well, especially when the inevitable accidents, the gas pocket explosions and collapsed pillars, came, and he could wriggle through the tiniest hole, looking for survivors. After being drafted, after several months of nerve-racking jungle ambushes, sniper bullets, and mysterious explosions in the murk of a primordial jungle all too alien; after hearing and seeing all the perks, and seeing as well his own life flash before his eyes over and over, he decided to volunteer for something different. There exists almost a rule of sorts, within the armed forces: never volunteer for anything. And, in its own abstract way, that maxim made absolute sense to Daniels. What could possibly be worse than entering the claustrophobic, utterly dark, swelteringly hot, even oven like tunnels, stripped down to shorts and boots, armed only with a suppressed pistol and a flashlight, knowing that using either one of them could bring dozens of the enemy right on top of you and the only difference between the two being that firing the pistol deafens you, as well? Where, even if you are victorious and kill the VC, that’s actually losing, of a sort, because you have to slither out backwards from the tunnel due to the corpse blocking the way? Where an innocuous-seeming stretch can give way to miles and miles of nondescript yet hellish crawlspace, every tree root and rock potentially rigged to fire that mortar shell or stab a sharp, poisoned punji stick into soft flesh; where snakes with venom so toxic it can kill a man in minutes, swarming fire ants, and vicious stinging scorpions make their homes; really, where all the bad things in the whole bad country were concentrated, with a good dose of absolute nightmare thrown in to boot, how could the Army expect volunteers?

7777777In hindsight, Daniels smiled. Sure, the job appeared absolutely God-forsaken – and was, no doubt about it, especially his current area of infiltration, the vast caverns and burrows of Cu Chi, rumored to encompass more than 200 square subterranean miles. But he got the bonuses, he received the extra hazard pay, and now, with two or three missions completed successfully, he really didn’t feel too bad about trying another. All the veterans had tried to intimidate him; his first foray, in a group of three, two of them led him into a bat-invested side shaft and fired several times, just to unnerve him; always trying to see if he could really take the pressure, the crushing strain. Ironically, Daniels almost got a kick out of that. No matter what, to him nothing could be more terrifying than the thought of dying from an unaimed shell or round, sprayed in his general direction, without even knowing it. Now, his war was personal; in this new profession, proficiency was number one, and the same two-foot by three-foot chasm that somehow concentrated so much misery and desolation into one place also shielded him from the clarion call of Lady Luck’s unfortunate tidings, in the dense jungle undergrowth.

7777777Several hours later, Daniels had no idea whether it was day or night; only that he was creeping forward at a glacial pace, hands gently probing every surface, checking for anything that felt suspicious, eyes darting quickly, flashlight masked so that only a vague glow emitted, giving him a halo of light in the sea of darkness. This particular tunnel had never been explored before, and so he took extra caution; what someone whose life wasn’t on the line might have called excessive. After much painstaking work, his inquisitive fingertips discovered the well-hidden trap door to the next level; so far, everything was going well enough. He radioed his superiors, informed them that he was still intact and was moving down. Having done so, he indefatigably pried the water- and even gas-tight door open with the blade of his knife, one centimeter at a time, pausing often, listening. A tiny glow, quite faint, glimmered through the tiny slit; the distinctive metallic clink of metal upon metal, as well as low-voiced but intense-sounding Vietnamese sentences. Daniels frowned, opened his radio link. He didn’t like the idea of just charging into this lit, occupied room, likely filled with weapons being cleaned and reassembled; even without actually looking, he learned something of value, at least – here was a target to be taken in force, most emphatically not by himself; call in, escape, lead more folks back, that was the way it was done. Even as he toggled the radio switch, however, that choice was taken from him.

7777777 Without any warning whatsoever, the layer of clay underneath Daniels, door and all, simply collapsed. In a great cloud of dust and confusion, Daniels crashed onto a table, sharp mysteries tearing holes in his back. Wind knocked out, utterly terrified, he spun around, drawing his pistol and peering through the roiling cloud, intending to at least take one of the Viet Cong with him if he was going to die. Ignoring the screaming in a language he could not understand a single jot of, Daniels caught sight of a Vietnamese carrying his own pistol, and seeking Daniels out. Even as Daniels brought his gun around and fired, he saw his enemy do the same, so that their firearms blasted at the same time; Daniels had time to watch his round catch the fellow in the chest and knock him down, hard, as his own gun exploded in his hands.

7777777 By some bizarre occurrence of war, the VC’s single, ill-aimed round struck Daniels’ pistol directly, spraying sparks and broken metal and electing a startled scream from Daniels as the fragments bit into the bare skin of his chest; both wrists felt broken. More importantly, however, even through the dual bellows, he could hear foreign but imperative-sounding shouts, catch glimmers of movement in additional tunnels, several of which met at this room. Without a gun, Daniels knew he was dead. Scanning the room quickly, barely able to perceive anything, he spotted a Russian submachine gun lying on the table into which he had crashed, several drums of ammunition nearby. He dove across the cluttered table, ripping further wounds on what had to be gun components, tools, miscellaneous metal bits intended to somehow combine with other bits and eventually kill somebody. Even as his fingers clutched the crudely-finished wood of the gun, pulled it towards him; even as his other hand desperately fumbled for a magazine, locking it into a weapon of unfamiliar and counter-intuitive construction, his hopes hardly rose; he was outnumbered, out of his element, caught off guard. He had blown it, ergo he was dead – all that mattered was how many he could take with him.

7777777 Daniels completed the dive, hurling himself behind the table and a stout chair. As he glanced above his makeshift cover, he saw guerillas leaning around the corners; snapping off shots, pinning him down, so that other VC soldiers could go around and finish him off. The first that tried he gunned down with a long burst; he spent the rest of the magazine desperately but inefficiently trading fire with the men hunkering down in their doorways, forcing them to duck back but accomplishing nothing except deafening all of them; he could feel the trickles of blood dripping into his sideburns, courtesy of ruptured eardrums. Shucking one ammo drum and reloading the gun, Daniels decided, with the bravado typical of anyone his age, that he would go out in style, not hiding like a coward behind some table underground in the middle of a Godforsaken jungle a million miles away from home. Steeling himself, he leapt onto the table and began firing.

7777777 For some idiot reason, the entire magazine was nothing but tracers. Blue-white, utterly brilliant, Daniels was amazed as a stream of pure luminescence ripped out of the gun barrel. He played it first in one doorway, then the other, striking the enemy down with forks of brilliant lightning, their bodies dancing as the cerulean starfire reached out to caress them. Daniels fired and reloaded, never stopping, the bullets somehow transforming into so much more, more than death, more than mortal; standing on the table, screaming wildly, he fell over the critical edge of his personal event horizon and felt as if he were Zeus, striking mortals down with bolts of thunder. He swept the muzzle across the room, blasting down anything that moved. Dozens of bullets punched into the thick clay walls but others ricocheted, whipping around while losing none of their radiance, until it seemed as if he were surrounded by a cage, a web of utterly beautiful but ultimately deadly power, the bullets haphazardly whipping this way and that, drawing their scintillating trails where before there was only darkness. In a crappy Russian submachine gun, he had found power. The enemy came against him but were met with a sheer wall of fiery light, crackling in the hot, still air.

7777777 Finally, overtaxed, the muzzle heated far too hot for far too long, Daniel’s machine gun quit, the snick of the bolt locking back somehow louder than all the previous gunshots, echoing, almost, a bit. Daniels stood, stunned at the loss; almost immediately he recovered, however, snatching from what he could now see was a pile of grenades, throwing one after another down every passageway he could see, the concussive force rocketing straight into his brain, pushing him further past the edge. Spurts of fire and death roared out, time and time again; dust choked the air thicker than ever. Again and again he let fly, past reason, past thinking, completely unaware that every nuance of his descent into madness, the machinegun fire and explosions and screaming, all of it caught by the radio and sent out to the larger world; a desperate, animal reaction, driven by the fear of a hunter who knows that the biggest prey is, inexplicably, hunting him. Finally, Daniels sat down, heavily. He had won. The enemy was no more. Now, the adrenaline, the ecstasy and flow and utter abandon of combat ebbed away. He felt, now, the deep cuts and burns from his former pistol; felt the shattering headache of so much noise in such a crowded area, his ears especially wailing with pain; noticed where one leg would not support him as it should, having taken one of the bullets from his neon web directly in the calf; he became aware of the blood splattered on him, blood he didn’t even think was his own.

7777777To his amazement, movement shattered the stillness. By the incredible – the insane – coincidence of war, the several women and children who had been making the grenades, assembling the guns – who had all cowered under the table during the entire event, which could not have lasted more than three or four minutes but stretched to infinity – all of them, who he hadn’t even noticed at all; every one of them had avoided being hurt. They looked at him with a combination of fear and loathing so strong, so forceful, that it catapulted Daniels out of his daze. He truly saw them – the skin as pale as milk by the light of the fires his rage had created, eyes wide, not just with fear, but because they had never seen the light of day… He beheld, with increasing fear, people who had lived in these tunnels for weeks, months – maybe even their entire lives. He broke eye contact, unable to withstand the heat of their gaze, only to see trickles of blood flowing down each wall, from where his madly sprayed bullets had struck them. Even as he remembered something a vet had mentioned – sometimes, they bury their dead in those walls, if they can’t anywhere else – panic rose. The incredible crash from insane combat high to wounded fatigue was part of it, yes, but also abject terror at the thought of living away from everything that was life…walking not with the warmth of the sun but the dark souls of the dead. He was no longer a god with lethal brilliance, no longer a tough-as-nails Tunnel Rat; he was an eighteen-year-old kid, alone and scared, his very view of existence blasted into oblivion by what he had seen and wrought in a mere handful of minutes. He wasn’t.

7777777 Daniels did not remember how he struggled out of the tunnel complex; only that a squad was waiting for him when he burst out, screaming and crying, convulsing so forcefully they thought that a snake had gotten to him. He did not know that he was earmarked for shipment back to the States, that his commanders had been so unnerved by what they heard over the radio that they no longer wanted him around as a liability. Only one thing, a single thought, hammered through his mind, to the exclusion of everything and anything else:

He was never going into another damn tunnel again.

Edenstein

03-12-2004, 04:50

OOC: this is my submission... not war based... well historicaly it is war based.

OOC: Some background before you read this post...

June 19th 1820 is the founding day of Edenstein, when we declared independence from the Newly formed United States... On June 20th of that year, a fleet was dispatched from the port at Erie Pennsylvania to smite this uprising, and a massive naval battle ensued. Edenstein came out victorius.. the war continued and they later won their independence.

Hence, every year on June 20th, citizens of Edenstein gather at Raliegh (The original capital) and place wreaths in the lake to remember all the sailors that have died in service to their country, and also to plead for the safe return of current sailors in service with the Navy....

IC:

*Emperor Ed walks to the edge of the lake at Raliegh, he holds in his hand a wreath which is multi colored in bright red and naval symbols and a linux penguin, he is followed by Admiral Ulonov who is carrying a similar wreath. As they reach the shore they see thousands of similar wreaths which are in various stages of floating away... Usualy there would be hundreds of people standing on the shore throwing their wreaths into the lake but at this time of night, they are the only two on the shore.. Emperor Ed turns to Ulonov*

Ed: Dimitri, why do you come down here with me every year... I know that you are not qutie the most sentimental of people.

Ulonov: Ed, there are some things that I must do... honoring the men and women that serve under my command, and those that have been saved and that have perished under my command as well. I come down here for the ones that can't come themselves. *he looks around and takes a cigarete out of his coat, it isn't snowing here, it is actualy a balmy 60 degree's, he takes the cigarette and lights it, he dosn't offer one to Ed, knowing he dosn't smoke* So why do you come out here....

Ed: Well... *looking out at the wreath's floating in the water, some with the names of sailors on them, ships, battles, from Edenstein history, even a few from other countries such as CoC, the former L-o-E and even Sketch a tear starts to form in his eye*

Lets just say I have my reasons....

*The two take the wreath's and throw them into the lake, they land about 20 feet into the lake and bump into a few other wreath's, there is a moment of silence as the two stand there silently, the only sound is the waves crashing on the shore, and Ulonov reaching into his pocket for a small book, he flips it to a page that had been ear marked, and he begins to read in a almost in audible voice*

Ulonov: "O Eternal Lord God, who alone spreadest out the heavens and rulest the raging of the sea; who has compassed the waters with bounds until day and night come to an end; be pleased to receive into thy Almighty and most gracious protection the persons of us thy servants, and the Fleet in which we serve. Preserve us from the dangers of the sea, and from the violence of the enemy, that we may be a safeguard unto our most glorious nation, Edenstein and her Dominions, and a security for such as pass on the seas upon their lawful occasions; that the inhabitants of our Empire may in peace and quietness serve thee our God; and that we may return in safety to enjoy the blessings of the land, with the fruits of our labours, and with a thankful remembrance for thy mercies to praise and glorify thy holy name, through Christ our Lord. Amen."

*Emperor Ed and Admiral Ulonov stand their silently taking in the moment, they turn around and walk back towards town, in silent reverence*

Colerica

03-12-2004, 06:50

I write constantly and I fancy myself an author. However, there are very few works of mine that are under five thousand words. I'll take a look through my collection of prose works and I'll post anything I find that's under five thousand, but I'm not making any promises.

EDIT:

Hah! I found something under five thousand. Hell, it's under thirty-two words. I present a short story:

While trying to find his notebook for his fall college class, Jordan's temple was pierced by a single forty-four caliber bullet and he collapsed to the floor of his Detroit apartment, dead.

***

As I said, that is a short story which is comprised of everything that a story needs, including:

-- Character(s): Jordan
-- Setting: Detroit during Autumn
-- Conflict: Jordan can't find his notebook for his class
-- Climax (and denoument): Jordan is shot and killed

:)

In all seriousness, I'll be looking for some of my short stories (twenty-five hundred to five thousand words). If I can find some I think are appropriate to post, I shall do so.

Jordaxia

03-12-2004, 15:35

If I'm to believe my English class, a short story also needs a twist at the end, avoiding the ubercliche "he/she wakes up, t'was all a dream"

Of course, that could just be a really short standard story.

[/half-arsed-Englishnazi.]
Taking this seriously gets you shotted.

I'll write my own attempt later, but for now, I have other stuff to do.

Colerica

03-12-2004, 18:17

If I'm to believe my English class, a short story also needs a twist at the end, avoiding the ubercliche "he/she wakes up, t'was all a dream"

There is no necessity for a 'twist' at the end of any short story. All a story needs to be considered a story is a plot, character(s), setting, conflict, climax, and some form of a denoument. All of which my 'baby' story has. There are several good sentence-long stories out there. I'll see if I can find some for ya'll.

In regards to posting some of my work(s), I have found some stuff that's under five thousand, but I'm going to meet my deadline to finish my novella today. When that's done, I'll post some stuff.

This name was taken

03-12-2004, 18:36

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.

Kay Son

05-12-2004, 10:41

Dear Cousin-

Yes, I am sorry to say, it is that way. Here in the Sutherlans, it's even worse. They randomly pick 6 guardsmen to escort the man to the gallowtree with two accompanying for the usual rituals. The ranking officer cries out the "Hear ye Hear ye-", rolling over the crimes, and the fate of his deed. The other man, as you noted, stands until notified, and lets his whip fall on the horse that leaves the man in the wind.

I, unfortunately, was member to these rituals and included in a recent one on the matter of a vic charged with the crimes of murder in the second degree. The four bore crossbows with the two bearing rigspears. The gallowtree was presented by a large number with the vic's wounded in the first rank.

I am not too sure on why I was lumped within the ritual. I mean- as the ranking officer, it is customary to have someone there if the post rider comes in. But there were three officers and no riders came.

Then there was the man in general, a migrant from the Barrens with a swarthy look and spiteful eye. Upon first look at my face he went mad, frothing at the tongue at the idea that I was a "harbringer of the Grecian's bride" and other related nonsense. The driver had to literally whip him into formation, the pikers forcing him on the horse, with one of the siva guards included to keep him on horse. The rolls were read, no-one spoke, and the stone dropped.

The horse went free and the man swung. But somehow, the branch wasn't strong enough, with him falling on his rear, the rope sundered in a ragged twain. The man, clothed in a death sack, did attempt to break himself free by running. The siva guards beat him with the spare attempting to catch the horse. He ranted and raged, with the failed attempt at spurring the crowd to his cause.

Another stone was ropped with the bowmen lining up and letting their bolts fly. He still ranted. A decision was made to stab him.

I sha'nt go into the details for obvious reasons. In the end, both the crimes of him and the detail were plain to see. Out of the horrid fate of his death, the man was given a decent burial in the direction of the plain.

It is a most sad affair that we resort to such means for order. Gallowtrees have always been a symbol of the last resort. It is only river stones that are used for stickball and not the ones used in the rituals. It is a truly horrid affair.

It please me to inform you that two of my squad are known to me. I have served with both during my service as a Richard and they will cleanse my eyes from the previous affair. I only have to choose the other two- depending on the assignment that they will give me.

I met my friend Usaf in the market. He has been promoted to Father and is currently in charge of the small mission that is in the area. He did share some of his music dedicated to the memorial of the fallen and helped my eyes to regain the innocence that it once had.

Uproaders are always a welcome site. I am not too sure if you have met one but once you have, they never fade from memory. They seem to have a certain grace that most folk lack, being tender and kind to others. I have seen some of their womenfolk and they go 'yond any harlos that I have met. They always seem to dress in the type of clothing that is half dress with a collar and slits for their pants. You can always tell a womenfolk from a manfolk from the colors that they wear. Womenfolk wear white slacks with an elegant sewn pattern at the sleeve or on the dagger. Their hair is loose with those married wearing a type of cap that only kinders wear. Their words are music and seem to use th' sounds of vowels with hard letters utilized at the end of a sentence. It is hard to distinguish between them singing an actual tune or speaking normally. Then their is their dance- which seems utterly etheral and 'yond any mortal definition of it into simple words or phrases.

I guess you could say that they are Juden but a different type of Juden. Think caravan but settled in a shortened area. They worship nature gods with the Father God paired with a Mother, with grace and beauty emphasized at every point and measure.

If I had an Uproader woman, I would be set for life. There is some rumor 'mongst the Nostis that I am acquainted with that the Uproaders are the legendary Otters from Long Ago. There is also some rumor that they are the children of Bertie an' Auren.

Uproaders do not confirm or affirm those rumors. They simply exist and remind us of the glory that the Western lands once had in the Elder Days. The history that I have seen documents their arrival during Lord Blackbird's(*) reign and do not document their origins. Scribes that I know are content with that fact, an extreme break from their character, and simply give the Uproaders the peace that they want.

As far as I know, the Uproaders have never been Named and simply operate as the Oporous of our society. In fact, much of the directives of our Medcore come from them. Yet they never seem to leave the area that they range, and will not go 'yond the Pass or Lowbelt.

Usaf did help me cleanse my eye by letting me eat at his hearth. The houses are as graceful as their being. There are wells at each partition with sounds emminating from the spring. They sit at a low table with cushions on the floor. A firepit is located some feet away from the tables, which count to four, and surround the bit. What supplies are needed for the feasting come from the north and south tables, arranged in a mosaic of glass bottles and pitches. Those foods that do not fit on those tables are located in small underground warrens near the northernmost and southernmost benches of the table.

When I feasted at his table, I was fetted by the most attractive lady that I have ever seen. Usaf did impart that she was his daughter but I know of no offspring that is that attractive. She was escorted by two others that were described as Usaf's cousins from Upwelld and Pivyadd. The daughter (named Elme) played a six string violin that brought images to my mind that go beyond the words I write here.

It seems very unreal that I returned frm Usaf's hearth to this drab cell of a Gisthoss. 'Tis a shame that the Uproaders never really quite speak on orderly terms. Four turns of the glass has passed and it seems I have forgotten much of what Usaf told me to allieve my sorrow.

A thought has come up to my mind on the 'others' that accompany them on their small missions Downroad. They're called the Roktok, always quite to a mouse, and seem to resemble the rumors of the Ene Une, with the noted exception of them wearing colors that makes you come back to see if they're there. A good number of them usually have dark green eyes with yellow rings aroudn them with the rest either a combination of yellow/black or black/light blue. It's the eyes that really put people off and they are only seen in the burials of vics at a gallowtree or severe accident of a man. Similar to the Uproaders, they never seem to range far from where the Uproaders dwell.

Then there are the other Sutherfolk that live within the Uproad area, which bring even more color to the region. They all seem to blur into the Baskit area, which I am told, has been "Suth'rized" 'yond comprehension. I wonder if I have ample amout of furlough to visit home...

I hope you are doing well in your exams and follow the advice I imparted you about Black Robes

Your Cousin-
Adder "Ada" Bonay
Greek Second Rank
Advisory Class
I Core

Addedeum: I will be in the area for further letters.

Addedeum 2: I mean Lord Blackbird of Oranj, the father of Lord Blackbird the Wise, whom ascended the Lord Generalship after Lord Blackbeard, may he rest in peace.

Addedeum 3: This matter of opinion may be looked differently in the Dutchies due to his unitarist policy

Wolfish

06-12-2004, 18:44

ooc: This is part of a thread exploring the myths and legends that form the history of NS Nations. Below is the myth surrounding the founding of Wolfish.

ic:

The wind blew relentlessly – cold daggers stabbing into his body – adding to his exhaustion – hastening his almost certain death.

His body was broken from months of grueling travel – the hides covering his body were ripped and worn….and yet the destination was still out of reach.

A year earlier – he’d heeded the call of his god. He had taken up the Spirit Quest – and prepared himself for the journey. He had journeyed over and under mountains – crossed raging seas – suffered for lack of food and tainted waters…but he had lived to this point. But now – wished only to die.

He laid his head on the hard ice and closed his eyes. The wind whipped around his body as his mind drifted back to his childhood – a small village…a fishing boat…a pretty girl – he drifted far from the field of ice where his body lay – drifted towards warmth and security….

He woke, bathed in light, warmed by a fire….alone…but not.

A figure, wrapped in fur walked from the shadow, and stepped into the pool of light.

“My child.”

He looked up at the towering figure – words failing him as he tried to rise to his feet.

“Rest,” she said. “Rest.”

Tears welled in his eyes as he took in her beauty. She stood as tall as a fir tree in the forests of his home – her hair grew in tangled braids – smooth and flowing like the waters of a wild river in Spring – her face shone with the warmth of the sun…while her body pulsed with energy underneath her heavy fur cloak…but her eyes – her eyes captured his soul and held it tight. Breath failed him as he stared into her eyes…they told the story of a thousand deaths – of ten-thousand births – of love, and hate – conflict and harmony.

His ears rang with an unheard song of victory and torment…he covered his head with his hands – trying to block the overwhelming sense of being in the presence of his god.

He stuttered…”My…My God….How may I..I serve?”

“You have done well. You have journeyed far…but you have stopped before the end,” she said, her voice like music – both grand and terrible.

“I have tried – but my body fails me. I cannot find the land of my…of your…I cannot find the goal of my Vision Quest.”

She gazed down in pity, tempered with love for this creature.

“You have come far – and have trusted me…You have done well. The land of your sons and daughters is near. The land that shall grow and prosper with fields of wheat – and riches from the earth is within your reach. You have traveled alone for so long. I will now send a guide to help you complete your journey. Rest. For when you awake it will come. It will guide and protect you. It will give you food when you are hungry, and direction when you are lost. Forevermore it will serve you and your kin.”

The traveler slumped by the fire – weariness overcoming his terror at being in the presence of his god.

He woke on the ice. The sun shone in the east, while the moon waned in the west. The camp – the fire – were replaced by snow and pillars of ice jutting from the frozen sea upon which he’d traveled.

And there it sat, just as she had promised.

The wolf was massive. Larger even than the traveler. Its black coat shone in the early morning light, its eyes were wild, but its manner tame.

It stood and walked ten metres before turning to watch.

He followed.

It walked for miles. The man worked to keep up. When he fell in exhaustion, it stopped. Disappeared. Then returned, a freshly dead hare in its mouth.

He ate.

For weeks the man and beast journeyed across the broken ice, till winter turned to spring and the ice began to thin.

The wolf brought wood – the man built a raft. And still they journeyed.

Finally – on the third year – late in the night – the raft stopped. Waves crashed around the man and beast – both gazing up…forest…river…mountain…a great and beautiful land opened up before them.

He stood, the beast at his side, as the God stepped from the forest.

“This is the land for which you have sought. This is the land that will sustain your life – and the life of your kin for ten-thousand generations. This is the land of Wolfish.

And he wept.

Britannia Supreme

11-12-2004, 03:11

I know its probably just me, and a flood of comments will probably attack me on this, but I just can't read ANY story which includes too many detailed names of military equipment.

You must really loathe this forum then!

Gurguvungunit

12-12-2004, 08:14

This story contains realistic depictions of blood and gore, as well as armed combat. I am not responsible for your emotional scarring.

Therris K’jal smiled darkly to himself as he tugged his uniform into place. He unfolded the scrap of writeplast from his pocket and read his new assignment. RSS Warrior, the newest and most powerful ship in the Rissikan star fleet. Most lieutenants would be jumping with joy upon receiving the prestigious posting, but K’jal was not most lieutenants. He was pleased, surely, but he had learned years ago to hide his emotions. K’jal was a spy, currently in the employ of the Saggitarian Union, an erstwhile ally of Rissika. K’jal turned smartly on his heel and walked out the door of his compartment. The door whooshed shut behind him. The Warrior was docked at slip eighteen, one deck up and three kilometres to the galactic east. K’jal took a personnel lift and soon arrived. The ship was an amazing sight. Docked to the station Sector Command One, where K’jal had lived, waiting for his posting, the ship appeared to be a giant stake, tapered at the front, with weapons and sensor pods jutting out spaced equidistantly around its diameter. Warrior gleamed a reflective chrome from its antisensor coating which scattered sensor readings like flies in a dust storm. This was K’jal’s opportunity. He had waited years for this posting. The information he could relay to Union command from the bridge of that starship would make him richer that he could dream. Therris K’jal, chief navigator of the Warrior and spy of the Saggitarian Union, stepped onto the boarding umbilical.

Captain Yris Murkand looked about the spacious bridge of the Warrior. This was the biggest career boost that she could have hoped for. The RSS Warrior, the pride of the fleet, the greatest ship ever built by Rissika, was hers. If only her crew would get here, she could begin the mission. At that moment, the door hissed open and a young lieutenant hurried through the door and sat at the Nav station. Murkand’s comlink chirped.
“Captain,” It was the voice of Warrior’s Security chief. “The last of the crew just reported on board. We’re ready to go, just give the word.”
“Thank you Lieutenant,” she said to him. “Murkand, out.
“Let’s get underway people,” she barked to the bridge crew. Murkand sat down in the sunken captain’s chair pit and familiarized herself with the displays on her console. Her head protruded out of the pit, as did those of the others on the bridge. She consulted one of the screens on her console now to find the name of the ship’s pilot. “Ensign Huursa, take us out.” She said to him.
“Aye aye, captain.” He said in response. Murkand could feel the engines coming online as the Warrior nosed her way out of the docking slip.
“Nav,” She said, “plot a course to rebel space.”

K’jal smiled tightly to himself. This was what he was sent here for. The Warrior was tasked with putting down a violent and vicious rebellion on the border of Rissikan and Union space. The rebels were former citizens of Rissika who wished to secede from Rissika to the Saggitarian Union in the hope that the freer trade offered under the latter’s laws would alleviate the rebel planets’ extreme economic crisis. The Rissikan Navy was doing their best to silence the rebels and put down the violence in the area. The Union government, however, would be only too pleased to accept the rebels into their nation. This was where K’jal came in. The Warrior would tip the balance of the conflict in favour of the Rissikan Navy, and thus cheating Saggitarian Union of the planets. K’jal was inserted to spy on the operations of the Warrior, and when the time was right, to lead the assembled Union fleet to the giant battleship which eluded their sensors. K’jal waved his arm, and the holographic starmap flickered to life before him, transparent, but showing all of Rissikan space. He touched his finger to the holographic representation of the rebel stars. His finger felt no pressure, because he was touching nothing but air and light, but the sector lit up and the hologram faded.
“Course laid in, Captain,” he said, a wolfish smile spreading across his face.

K’jal had spent the rest of his duty shift at his station, and when it ended, he tapped a sequence of commands into the console, and initiated a power feedback which caused sparks to explode from his console. Not very damaging, but very dangerous looking.
“It’s alright,” he said calmly to the startled bridge crew. “I’ll see what’s wrong with it.” K’jal bent down and pried open the maintenance port. As the others left the bridge, K’jal inserted a small palm reader and disc into the wiring. The disc would install a spy AI that would transmit the Warrior’s exact location to a cloaked Union Cruiser which shadowed the Warrior. He had five minutes until the next shift arrived. Usually, there would be no time difference, but he had tweaked the duty roster somewhat to give him the time he needed. K’jal welded a piece of false backing to the console to hide his modifications. Using a laser welder, he got the job done in two minutes. With three to spare, he closed the port and got to his feet. Therris K’jal had just sealed the fate of the crew of the Warrior.

Thurrow Kiela, Captain of the Union cruiser Watchkeeper, looked around the dimly lit bridge of his four decade old cruiser. Watchkeeper had served the Saggitarian Union well, but recently was becoming outdated. This was likely her last mission. Captain Kiela intended the ship that had served him well for so long to go to her grave with the honour of being a crucial participant in the destruction of the largest ship in the Rissika Navy. He transmitted the information from the spy on the Warrior to the rebel flotilla and the Union fleet.

“Captain,” the call was from the first officer, seated at Murkand’s right. “We have entered rebel space.” Murkand’s eyes widened fractionally. The Warrior was about to get her baptism of fire.
“General Quarters! All hands to stations.” They were entering a war zone. General Quarters was a reasonable precaution. As the lights dimmed to the red of General Quarters, the blue light of hyperspace also dimmed, and reverted to stars. A battle raged, armed transports and makeshift warships of the rebel movement fought battered looking ships of the Rissikan fleet.
“Incoming transmission,” the communications officer said from her post behind Murkand.
“Bring it up.” A holographic representation of a man dressed in the uniform of a captain of Rissika formed in the air above the captain’s chair.
“Captain Murkand, it’s good to see you. I’m Captain Williams, senior surviving officer in the Rissikan forces in the sector. This is the rebel’s big push, and we were taken by surprise. Most of the fleet was destroyed. We would appreciate your help, captain.”
“We would be happy to help,” Murkand replied smoothly. “Weapons, target the rebel cruisers. Sensors, scan for incoming hyperspace trails.”

Deep in the main computer of the Warrior, something stirred. Fibre optics lit up as a program came online. Inside its mind flew probabilities and variables. Would the rebels stand a chance of surviving intact? Would they be able to destroy the Rissikan fleet alone? Was this the time to destroy Warrior? Could it serve more purposes in the future? The program came to its decision in less than a nanosecond. It transmitted a call on all frequencies, up and down the board. The message was sensor data that would allow ships to get a weapons lock the elusive Warrior. It was received by the Watchkeeper and the Union fleet. The fleet initiated a hyperspace jump. Watchkeeper manoeuvred aft of the Warrior and targeted the larger ship’s engines. Thirty points of light opened above the battle, thirty Union ships appeared, weapons blazing at the Rissika battleship. Watchkeeper de-cloaked and fired.

Therris K’jal smiled grimly as he felt the ship rock and slipped from his station through the emergency access port below his seat. Because the Nav console was sunken into the deck, no one noticed for a moment. By that time, K’jal was running down the corridors to an escape pod.

On the Warrior’s bridge, all was chaos. The Union fleet had set upon the Warrior with a vengeance, and the ship’s internal structure had been compromised. Conduits lining the ceiling had blown, and smoke and steam billowed out of the split piping. Shrapnel rained from the ceiling. A section of heavy pipe fell and crushed the first officer. His cranium was smashed, blood leaked out onto the plating, followed by grey brain matter. A huge shell from a nearby cruiser smashed through the view port. There was a whistling in Murkand’s ears as the air vented itself into space. A young ensign flew out the hole and exploded in the loss of pressure. Murkand saved her own life only by clawing her way past the security foyer just as the pressure doors closed. Someone had betrayed the Warrior, it was the only possibility. The ship’s sensor scattering hull should have protected them. Murkand thought she knew who had doomed them all. Lieutenant K’jal had not been on the bridge when the window blew.
“Get to the auxiliary bridge and try to get us out of here,” she said to a lieutenant standing beside her on the security foyer. “I’m going to find someone. You have command.” She drew her service pistol and stalked off down the smoky corridor in search of the spy.

K’jal was in the process of opening an escape pod when he felt a pressure at the back of his neck. It was hard and cold, a pistol. K’jal raised his hands and slowly turned around. It was Captain Murkand. She had a cut running from her right forehead to her left ear, and blood had dried over her face. When she spoke, she had to spit out blood every few seconds.
“Therris K’jal. I hereby strip you of the rank of lieutenant. You are guilty of the crimes of espionage, sabotage and murder. I sentence you to death with the power vested in me by the Rissika high command.” She pulled the trigger…

… and Therris K’jal’s head exploded in a fully satisfying way. The deck bucked under Murkand’s feet and she fell, stopping herself by pushing out against the wall. She keyed the compad on the wall.
“All hands, this is the Captain. Abandon ship, Repeat, Abandon ship!” It was the hardest thing she had ever done. The escape pods were filling and jettisoning on the wall monitor, still stained with K’jal’s blood and gore. There was just the escape pod that K’jal had tried to take as his own remaining, bypassed by the crew because of the dead body and terrifying figure standing in the door. Murkand stepped inside and sealed the pod. She keyed the launch button, and felt the bitter tears of shame.

Tioszaea

17-12-2004, 18:57

Tioszaea

17-12-2004, 19:00

You must really loathe this forum then!

I'm with the drunks! What's with all these M-1612 Firebird 7's special 32nd infantry divisions?? :confused:

Use something like..

"..and they all monotonously drew their sleek black pistols, recent addition to the government's already over-large aresenal. They even had built in laser pointers, like a sniper rifle. Only handheld."

United Elias

17-12-2004, 23:47

Ah, finally found something short enough for the word limit. This is quite complex though, with several subtle references to literature (Shakespeare, Conrad and a couple others), history and even religon. Oh well, I'm interested to see what you guys thing, everyone seems to have a fairly strong reaction to this one, one way or another, it really depends whether you like the style.

Seventy-One

Radiant midday sun beat down on scabby asphalt, gritty dust settling in a windless, somnolent humidity. The straight potholed road flanked by shoddy brick and stone buildings, no more than glorified two-storey shacks; and outside a handful of almost vintage, partially cannibalised cars, sitting idly on the edge of where one would expect a curb, but where there was none, just earth and rampantly growing weeds.

Trundling along over the ruts, slow but steady in pace, and maintaining course down the right hand lane, of what was ostentatiously referred to as a boulevard, a Land Rover Defender, its iridescent white paint reflecting the colour that the locals would nominally assign the vehicle’s passengers. As the 4x4 lumbered down the thoroughfare, figures inside watched through tinted windows, separating them from the feral world beyond their understanding; an elder chatting to a neighbour, a woman hanging damp cloth from a window, simple, terrestrial yet suspicious and alien. For the natives, looking at the foreigners in what appeared to be a brand new vehicle, in a land where tyres were themselves a precious commodity; the sentiment of distrust was indeed mutual, and a sense of consternation hung like an invisible veil of smog over the despondent city.

Long, dark, manicured hair and heavy makeup defined a woman in the passenger seat of the Land Rover; she turned back to her disciple, sitting behind, his hands methodically working camera equipment. “Paul, how did those pictures turn out? You know how sob stories about suffering children go down? It’s a slow news cycle; we could be looking at a headline.”

The photographer replied mutedly, “Well, I’ll just be pleased to leave this godforsaken hole as soon as I can.” In response she uttered a couple quiet words of assurance to him that his wish would soon be fulfilled, herself not enthusiastic about the surroundings in any other than a professional context. She immediately followed this by lighting a cigarette and rolled down the window. The gentle breeze of slow speed was not a cool or refreshing one, but warm, stifling, almost asphyxiating.

Steve West, the driver, focusing on the road and silent until now, momentarily glanced at her, his dark, brooding, wolf like eyes meeting hers, interrupting tersely in a harsh American accent, “I wouldn’t do that, Ma’am.”

“Yes I know, but I can’t quit.” She looked at his weathered face, this, combined with a respectful but authoritative and inherently cynical tone, made him seem old for his looks. It was plain to see that the innocence of youth had left this man earlier than most.

“I meant the window Miss, you’re asking for trouble with it open.”
She rolled up the window hastily, tossing the cigarette theatrically, and looked out onto the streets; the driver’s words a sudden and rather unwelcome forewarning. “So it is as bad as they say out here?”

“Out there, not in here, let’s keep it that way. Anyway isn’t that what you, wanted, death, disease and danger I mean? There wouldn’t be much of a story here otherwise.”

She distracted herself momentarily, playing with her hair, before replying insincerely “There’s more to it than that.”

As a driver, a security agent and a former soldier, Steve ignored the comment. He had seen too many of these people come to prove their valour to others and more often themselves. They would leave with only a misguided notion of their own courage and altruism, for documenting a largely unnoticed event for a larger ambivalent public. People of such calibre could not care to discern the nuances of tribal warfare and the disparate opinions towards the westerners, merely paint an ultimately bleak, generalising picture.

The woman, decided not to let the man get off that easily, “Okay, so what brings you here then?”

“It’s a job, it’s well paid. Everyday I get to wake up and see how these people live; it makes me grateful that God made me an American.”

She nodded silently before asking another question, the sort of prosaic idiocy she might ask during an interview for a glossy periodical, “How do you deal with the danger?”

“I grew up in a bad part of L.A., which ain’t too different.” This time she made no reply, disinclined to point out the inconsistencies of his last two answers. Instinct told her that this man thought he knew everything and was not going to be told anything by anyone, especially her.

For the first time in over five minutes, another vehicle appeared on the street, turning chaotically from a cross-alley. The pickup truck, American sourced by appearance, had obviously been ‘modified’ periodically in its life cycle by its owners as it now sported disproportionately large wheels, and a ‘sound system’, an antiquated stereo taped externally to the roof of the cab. This vehicle, travelling just under a hundred yards behind the Land Rover, jerked erratically as the driver fought the gearbox and swerved in and out of the loosely defined lane, for no obvious reason or purpose.

Watching closely through the rear-view mirror, West studied the movements of truck and driver, determining it worthy of continued attention. Adjusting his aviator sunglasses, he looked at the road ahead. The surroundings told him they were entering a more built-up area; residential hovels gave away to brick warehouses, once used for storing agricultural produce and industrial materials in a not so distant past. Now they were predominantly derelict; duplicitously quiet. Again checking behind, Steve noticed that the trailing pickup was now keeping back, slowing, and surreptitiously trying to leave more distance between the cars.

A minute later as the white Land Rover accelerated towards the next intersection, a flatbed lorry appeared from the cross street, without warning. Instead of continuing across as one would expect, it braked sharply. Instinctively, West slammed on the brakes of the Land Rover and it shuddered to an abrupt halt, fifty yards or so away from the now stationary lorry. Just then the truck that had been following behind them, swerved, positioning itself so that the road was blocked, now in both directions. Trained to assess danger and fighting a sudden rush of adrenalin, Steve deduced his options. Simultaneously armed men had appeared from under a tarpaulin on the back of the flatbed, and they approached. Five or six of them, masked and faceless, wearing paramilitary uniforms festooned with bandanas, holstered knives and ammunition; they advanced, their rifles firmly aimed towards him.

He reassured the passengers, “Don’t worry they won’t kill us,” that much was sincere, perhaps unfortunately.

His mind raced as events seemed to slow, gunmen closing fast, and being effectively surrounded, impulse told him there was but one course of action available, “Just get out, keep your hands in the air, if shooting starts, hit the ground.” Reaching for his own holster, he took out the handgun, unsure whether to use it, and if so, on who? Stories from these events in the past made him consider using it on himself. Instead however he placed the device on the seat and carefully dismounted the vehicle, raising his hands, capitulating.

_______________________________________________________________________________

He stood still. A lick of blood ran down his face from a gash in his forehead; he was indifferent. Around him, littering the floor, metal pots and pans, broken plates, and expended bullet casings. At the other end of the room, only feet away from him, five bloodied corpses lay on the dusty stone floor, three shot in the chest and head, cleanly, two were partially mutilated, the latter not on his account. He turned his attention to the rifle, its wooden stock still firmly pressed to his shoulder, the very same instrument that had been used to smash his nose and crack his ribs through weeks, months past. Time and hour had indeed run through the roughest days, albeit with indescribable lethargy, so much so that it’s very concept had seemed ambiguous. In fact it had been seventy one nights, the number of hand scratched marks on the stone wall, each denoting another fated dusk, a high ventilation window making him dimly aware of solar movement, although darkness in his confines had been perpetual.

Relaxing his grip of the metal trigger he breathed calmly. It had been methodical, mechanical. Bang. Bang. Bang. Nothing more than a few loud snaps to release a zealous wrath, to avenge the torment inflicted on him, to realise an assiduous ambition that had been brooding since that fateful day. Remorse was not an issue; he had not taken the lives of humans, just the lives of savages, callous thieves actually, thefts of time. However he now felt regret, only because he may have made it too quick, too little opportunity to savour this moment, which he had spent hours contemplating, craving.

Finally, after a perceived eternity, he released his grip on the weapon and it clattered to the ground, the reverberating noise bringing him back into a nebulous sense of reality. Behind him, several men, white knights in Kevlar armour. Strangely self-conscious, he had not seen a mirror for the length of his captivity and he could only imagine what his unshaven, battered face could look like, but the men around him cared not. Their wary expressions told him that their main concern was not for his physical degradations but psychological ones, the ones he had not yet addressed, and never would.

Almost overcome with diffidence, he turned towards his fellow warriors, now his liberators; uttering two crackly, frail words, “Let’s go.” Silently they approached him, supporting his arms, as he stumbled out into fresh air, finally letting go of the rancid, malodorous atmosphere that he had been forced to exist in, merely exist, only now was he living again, or so he assumed. The dazzling light of the outside blinded his eyes for a few seconds, eyes now accustomed to darkness.

Elkazor

19-12-2004, 00:54

Hello all, I thought id chime in. Kudos, UE. Although an Historian by trade, I nevertheless have a flair for the dramatic, which as one can imagine does not go well with primary source research. Having giving that caveat, Ill donate a sample:

It was a warm, vibrant and vivid spring day in the gothic city of Rheims. Once again, after centuries of silence, the bells were rung with gusto. Banners bedecked the narrow streets, the blue cloth was illuminated by the sun, and the emblazoned Fluer-de-lis sparkled in the morning. All attention was turned to the magnificent Cathedral, which soared like a prayer in the center of this fairy tale landscape.

The impossible had happened, beyond all hope. In a coup d'etat that history would be compelled to record as glorious, the Fifth Republic of France had been overthrown. No one had suspected it. In weeks of fighting, multiple insurgent groups (only now known to be members of the newly reconstitued Royal Army) had swept throughout the countryside. They marched under the banner of Christ, preaching restoration of the Ancien Regime and the Bourbon Kingship. The Army of the Republic had been bushwacked, as it were, caught in total dissaray, on several fronts. The first, and most obvious, was the military front. The Royal Army (composed of elite regiments from across the world-the finest mercenaries money could by, and completely loyal only to Louis XX) had been gathering for years in silence, preparing for the day when Louis chose to reclaim his ancestral birthright. He had claimed it. The battle was fought mainly in Paris, where republicanism was strong, and a commune had again formed to resist His Majesty. They failed; for the second front (popular opinion), the one thing the Republicans thought they had,
evaporated in the face of the Divine Kingships imminent return. From Strasbourg to Brest to Marseilles, citizens became subjects. Shocking the world, the Vatican supported this reclamation, Pope John Paul III calling it 'an act of God.' When fighting ended, the Republic had been destroyed utterly, its members accepting banishment to covert locations. Versailles was again occupied, massive renovations designed to make the Royal Families move in comfortable were underway. The Estates General was in the process of being reconstituted, and Church lands were given back in full.

Slowly, down the bedecked boulevard, came the carriage majestical. Drawn by six white horses it sauntered down the cobblestone streets, the hoof beats drowned out by the peeling of the bells. Today was the day of coronation, when Louis XX would resume the office that had been so cruelly denied to his ancestors. The carriage pulled in front of Rheims Cathedral, footmen opened its doors. Louis XX, by the Grace of God King of France and Navarre, Defender of the Faith, stepped from the gilded transport. Cameras flashed instantly.

Louis XX stood six feet tall. He was dressed in the manner of a king. Upon his head was a powdered wig, he wore a magnificent blue velvet ensemble, and diamond buckeled shoes. His eyes were a deep brown, almost black, and his face was regular and handsome. Slowly he ascended the steps to the open doors of the Cathedral. As he walked in, followed by his wife Marie Therese and their five sons, the organ began to boom, and the choir lifted their voices to God. The doors were then shut, and the hours long coronation was begun. He then kneeled before the Grand Almoner of France (nephew to Pope John Paul III), only a few days in his office, and the elaborate ceremony began. After this (the coronation) came the enthronement. The King, who had been on his knees the whole time, was raised, and they dressed him in the great royal blue robe, sprinkled with fleurs-de-lis and ending in a long train. Wearing the robe and crown on his head, Charlemagne’s scepter in his right hand and Charlemagne’s hand of justice in his left, he was solemnly led to his great throne, raised very high between four tall columns, visible from everywhere: at the same time the great doors were opened, the people crowded in, birds were set free, all the trumpets rang out, the Te Deum was sung and the enraptured, overwhelmed assembly burst into tears and cries of ‘Long live the king’!

The next morning, all the newspapers in France carried only one, strikingly bold headline- VIVAT REX IN AETERNUM!

DemonLordEnigma

19-12-2004, 21:08

What is godmodding? How about gods fighting? See this thread:

http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=382562

That has got to be the greatest nonserious RP I have ever participated in.

Treznor

19-12-2004, 21:11

Did I mention how I'm not going to follow links to NS threads? This is not a "link your favorite thread" challenge.

Late in the game, I know, but I thought it bore repeating.

Tech and Knowledge

22-12-2004, 11:05

Damn, I like writing, but my English skills simply cannot cope with the requirements of this thread...

LEARN SPANISH!!!! LOL :D

Treznor

22-12-2004, 14:36

Damn, I like writing, but my English skills simply cannot cope with the requirements of this thread...

LEARN SPANISH!!!! LOL :D
I speak a little Spanish. But beside that point, why are you participating in this forum if you can't write under 5,000 words? Most people complain if you write that much in one go.

But if concerns you that much, post it in Spanish and I'll work on translation. I'll make allowances for language difficulties.

Omz222

23-12-2004, 05:22

/Start of Comment/ Well, here's my entry, though depending on different people's taste this might be a little bit violent. My writing is pretty rusty and English is my second language, but it is nice to see many people's talents here. I think that this is a pretty good chance to let us express our writing style and even who we are as different people, and what our nation is like as different entities.
Well, here it goes. To hopefully improve my skills, comments/constructive criticisms/suggestions are welcomed. Thanks, and enjoy. /End Comment/

"The unavoidable consequences is raining upon us, and as a determined crowd of the Omzian civilization, we must accept the fact and endure the upcoming tragedies," Militiaman First Class Hogan said solemnly as his vision skimmed over the great crowd of people through the cold, brisk air, with a wave of cold winds blazing through below the darkening sky. As a militia unit commander, he was the only hope for the whole of the Omzian nation, and regular military units were nowhere to be seen. As he faced the crowd, he noticed a great diversity: some were regular men and women, and there were people as old as seniors, and as young as small infants in the hands of their mothers and fathers. The seniors bears a trillion scars, while the infants would probably never know what all of this means. He regretted that he had to bring them into the struggle, but he knew that they were the last ones left. Burnt out tanks were also placed randomly around him, as misplaced turrets sank into the blackened chassis of the tanks. These tanks seemed so fearful, but at this moment, there were nothing else that could deter the enemy invaders from the total annihilation of the Omzian nation. The only thing is the people's minds, and Hogan hoped that the crowd bears the same willingness to fight the invaders as him.

Massive roars of rocket artillery travelled fiercely overhead, as some took cover, while other cried in defiance. The enemy was near, but they will never shatter the Omzian people's belief in unity and independence. One rocket buzzed by the cold gas of air, as it smashed into a nearby flat, incinerating it into smithereens. Hogan looked with great sadness as the enemy consumed the city before his own eyes, and gravity pulled a small drop of tear from his eyes onto the hard ground. The entire ground shook violently and resisted defiantly as enemy aircraft came by, with a shattering roar that filled the people with anger, grief, and fear, as cannon rounds buzzed by with great energy. Some people dropped fearlessly, while other pleaded for peace and forgivness. For Hogan, the Omzian people are beginning to fade away. Some people begin to disperse away, as a small cruise missile skimmed overhead, as other people prepared their automatic rifles in anger.

"Comrades, the enemy tank are approaching us, but do not fear! The Omzian people's will and determination will shatter them at the doorsteps to Osaria!", Hogan cried loudly as he held his fist in place, expressing his will to fight the enemy intruders to the end. Suddenly, there was silence. Deep silence, as nothing moved nor were displaced, except the coherent breathing of the people. Snowflakes began to fall harmless onto the brown collection of soil, as each cut through the miniscule particles of air with virtual silence. It was a moment of absolute piece, and Hogan decided to take an advantage of this. But he also knew that the enemy will be planning surprises, and as the machinery within his aging wrist watch propels the small moving hands, time is running out.

"We are one of the last Omzian people left, but we all share our identities as Omzians, as it must be our responsibility to clutch our soils fearlessly, and to hold every fragment of our soil! We must uphold our entity as a group of proud people, who-", he exclaimed as his speech was soon cut by the roar of enemy aircraft, diving like divine birds from the fiery underground of hell as the whoosh of rockets came to life. As the rockets impacted into the center of the crowd, people begin to fall and escape, as blood smeared all over the concrete ground. For the crowd, it was a terrifying experience that is no way more benefiting than total doom, but Hogan knew that unless they resist, they would cease to exist sooner, and addressed the crowd as the fighter jets transformed from large warbirds in the sky to mere dots above the darkened horizon.

"Comrades, do not be defeated by the enemy! Yes, they have these fighter jets in the sky, and we don't! But keep in mind that it is our determination that will bring us eternal victory, and either we fight, or we would have to meet the same fate at an early time! As who we are and for the sake of where we reside on this great land, we must resist to the end!", Hogan yelled at the crowds, now composed only a fraction of those who appeared firsthand. He turned, as he pointed behind. The fiery horizon reddened as enemy howitzers opened fire, the shells impacting not far from their location, as roads and buildings were reduced to wreckages, rubble, craters as the impacts of the shells pierced through between the tiniest of the molecules, blasting them into indistinguishable pieces. Machine guns fired over the distance, as the quiet roaring sound from the enemy tanks and armoured vehicles came into life, rolling over the flat ground and progressing towards the urbanized terrain up front. "This is the final hour! Comrades, this is the time! It is now or never! We must fight, and as a collective group of determined people sharing the sale beliefs, thoughts, and passion, we will overrun them!", Hogan roared with extreme anger as his sound waves impacted all around him, a white puff of water vapour coming out as a sign of determination and anger. He got his automatic rifle ready, as he signaled and pointed to the muzzle flashes some distances away. "The machine gun posts are right there! Comrades, we will fight together, and we will share our blood smears together!"

The AK-47 automatic rifle to Hogan for some apparant reason, is a beautiful firearm, and the unbreakable attachment between his rifle and himself grew ever since Hogan wielded it the first time years ago. But he doesn't have the time to examine its great elegance, as he faced the machine gun posts right ahead. His vision fixed onto the great muzzle flashes, as they penetrated the mist of smoke through the distance. Their soft sounds sent out distinct sound waves like buzzsaws propelling thousands of fragments away, as the rounds now kicked and displaced the dirt in front of Hogan, and went through the grassfields or simply richoted. Hogan felt a terrible chill running through his body and his state of mind, but with a passion and a desire to overcome his enemies, he overcame his fear as he took off. Running and firing from his hip position, the automatic rifle roared to life as the seven-point-sixty-two millimeter calibre bullets zipped through out the end of the barrel of the gun, with trails of smoke coming out from the barrel with each shot of anger. The muzzle flashes of the enemy machine gun posts enlargened, as Hogan fixed his bayonet and saw a small bottle hurled towards the machine gun position. Bullets whizzed through the air as his ears could sense the shockwaves that these bullets has left behind before a loud explosion rocked the ground feverishly, but it is not a long time before he dropped too. As he let out a final yell, he dropped onto the cold grass and soil beside the brass casings of his own ammunition.

Others took little notice of Hogan, but they were too, determined to thrust a huge sabre into the heart of the menace of the enemy. Some were armed with firearms such as revolvers, while others simply wielded knives, sticks, and stones. Others simply had two fists. A group of people also handled a basketful of molotov cocktails and other tools that bears a great incendiary characteristic. However, it was not long before the muzzle flashes appeared again and grew as they moved into close proximity, with a mask of smoke from the barrel, and it was not long before the citizens dropped, too.

Demo-Bobylon

23-12-2004, 14:55

Aw, everyone's posting nasty stuff about war. That makes me sad. So I'll post a genuine story I wrote for RP -

Mr Weasel Saves the Day

Mr. Weasel was bored.
He went to Mr. Badger's house.
"Mr. Badger," Mr. Weasel said, "Do you want to play?"
"I can't," replied Mr. Badger, "I need to gather mushrooms for Mr. Pig. He gives me food."
So, Mr. Weasel went to Ms. Mole's house.
"Ms. Mole," Mr. Weasel said, "Do you want to play?"
"I can't," replied Ms. Mole, "I need to gather mushrooms for Mr. Pig. He gives me food."
So, Mr. Weasel went to Mr. Swan's house.
"Mr. Swan," Mr. Weasel said, "Do you want to play?"
"I can't," replied Mr. Swan, "I need to gather mushrooms for Mr. Pig. He gives me food."
So, Mr. Weasel went to Mr. Pig's house.
"Mr. Pig," he said, "My friends are all working for you. Can you give them some time to play with me?"
Now, Mr. Pig was a very selfish person. He liked his mushrooms, so he said "No."
Mr. Weasel was upset and went off.
The next day, Mr. Weasel had an idea. He went to Mr. Badger, and Ms. Mole, and Mr. Swan and they talked. They all agreed it was a good idea.

The next day, nobody turned up to collect mushrooms for Mr. Pig. Mr. Pig was very angry. "Where are my mushrooms?!" he shouted.
He went to the river. All of Mr. Weasel's friends were playing. "Why aren't you collecting my mushrooms?" Mr. Pig said.
Ms. Mole replied, "Usually, we find mushrooms for you, and then you give us food. But now we are collecting food for ourselves and we have lots more time for play this way."
Mr. Pig was angry, but he could do nothing. He went back to his mansion and spent the next week grumbling.
Meanwhile, all the other animals were having fun, playing by the river. And that was how Mr. Weasel saved the day.

The End.

Thoughts? It was highly acclaimed!

Free Eagles

23-12-2004, 18:16

(OOC: I wrote this as part of a sci-fi thriller book. Feedback would be greatly appreciated.)

The Fall of Cararra, © 2002, C Bowden

Cararra. Once home to over nine million souls, now it was home only to the damned. Once a proud and beautiful city, now its streets were lit by the burning wreckage of vehicles and the flash of gunfire, and the buildings collapsed into mountains of rubble. Its once happy streets were filled with corpses instead of children playing and explosions were heard instead of laughter.
Corporal James Nilson crashed to the ground as another shell streaked overhead, whistling like a banshee. He looked around for his comrades. There, crouched behind a hunk of fallen concrete. He scrambled to his feet and ran over to them, Privates Sofia Walker and Kelly Deyall. The rest of their squad, including the Sergeant, were dead, lying in the abandoned streets of this godforsaken place.

The elite 243rd Rangers Regiment, known as the ‘Bloodwraiths’. They had been called heroes, they had been called invincible. Not today. Not here. Here, they were neither. They were being torn apart. Four years of history, destroyed in less than a week.
Their unit had been sent in, alone, to deal with the Mourano invasion, only to discover that the 8mm rounds from their LSR pulse rifles were virtually useless against the organic bio-armour used by the genetically enhanced Mourano Warriors. Even the 12mm machine gun rounds had little effect. They were forced to use their 18mm high explosive rockets, stocks of which were low and demand far exceeded supply. Their own electro-reactive armour was only just adequate for protection, the enemy weapons punching through with varying degrees of reliability.

Nilson looked up. Republic Kestrel fighters clashed with Coalition Daggers, lighting up the overcast grey of the sky with ruby laser beams, casting a blood-like colour over everything in sight. Every so often, one would crash to the ground in a streak of fire, scattering rubble and debris everywhere. Their only working radio chattered,
“Third Battalion, we have evac from the old fort in thirty minutes, get over there.” Lieutenant Adam Ralter, the battalion commander. He was the highest ranking officer left alive in 3rd Battalion. ‘A lieutenant in a major’s post. Only here,’ thought Nilson.
The three exhausted soldiers pulled themselves to their feet and started walking. As they picked their way through the remains of a mall, a sinister screech met their ears. A Mourano Warrior appeared from behind a wall. Reptilian, all of seven feet tall, with four arms ending in vicious claws, it was a vision of nightmares.
But this was no nightmare. There was no waking up for Nilson. This was all too real. As always he froze, found his feet stuck to the floor and his arms encased in lead. But, as always, it passed, and he raised his rifle. Whoosh… Boom. The rocket caught the Warrior in the left upper shoulder, shredding the organic armour and blasting its left arms off. Then a burst of fire from Sofia’s 20mm machine gun, the only standard weapon to be consistently effective against Warriors, disintegrated its face, spraying brains over the rubble.
As they passed the corpse, Walker put a bullet through its brain stem, just to be sure. A Warrior could lose four of its six limbs and still pose a significant threat. Nilson picked up the Warrior’s sidearm and slid it into his pocket.

After exiting the mall, things were no better. They were in clear view of a group of Mourano Soldiers, a more basic version of the Warrior, and a short but fierce gun battle ensued, rifle fire passing plasma bursts, as the two sides tried to slaughter each other. A low flying Republic support craft was brought down in a burst of plasma fire, crashing at the far side of the car park. Nilson waved Kelly on ahead, and she dashed across the open space, rifle ready, with Sofia and Nilson right behind her.

The ship, a UV-16 Python, was relatively undamaged. It would never fly again, that was beyond doubt, but parts could be salvaged. The three soldiers began the search that had become part of their sad duty. Taking a dead person’s possessions thrilled none of them, but if they were to stay alive, it was a necessary practise. They found an ammo box full of rockets in the wreck, augmenting their meagre supply, plus some rations.
The basic food, not even worthy of the lowest hotel, was wolfed down with eager hands. Their own supply had run out the previous night, and supply ships were being intercepted before they reached the city, leaving the stricken soldiers to fend for themselves.

The pilot of the Python was dead, a metal spar piercing his chest, but the co-pilot appeared to be alive. Slumped forward in his seat, there was no visible sign of injury and, as they debated what to do, he stirred and groaned. His hand went to his head.
“Hey. Can you hear me okay?” asked Nilson quietly.
“Yeah. What happened?” ‘”What happened?” The universal pointless question, Nilson said to himself. Aloud he said, “You were shot down. Your pilot’s dead.”
“Shit.”
“Yup, that about covers it. Welcome to Hell. Can you walk?” said Kelly, getting straight to the point, as usual.
“Yes, I think so. Why?” replied the airman.
“Two reasons. First, in case you hadn’t noticed, this city is crawling with Mourano. Second, we’ve got evac in… twenty-five minutes now, and we’ve got two klicks to cover, all of it uphill,” explained Kelly sardonically.
The pilot pulled the release on his harness and climbed carefully out of the cockpit, testing each limb before putting his weight on it.

Sofia handed him a rifle she had found in the back along with a pouch of rockets and some armour. After explaining what to fire at what, she said brightly,
“So, do you have a name or what?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Private Chris Stevens. You?”
“Sofia Walker. She’s Kelly Deyall and he’s James Nilson.”
“Hey. Let’s move, Sof,” said Nilson. She held up her left hand in mock surrender, her right never leaving her gun’s trigger.
“We’re moving, we’re moving,” she said, walking around the Python.
“Hold it one second, Jim.” Kelly was wrestling with the mounted 20mm gun on the portside hatch of the Python. “Let’s get this off. It’ll be useful.” She pulled it free and hefted it in her hands. “I can carry this. Let’s go.” She picked up a box of ammunition for her new weapon and pushed it into her pack before walking towards what used to be Cloud Avenue. The former main shopping street was a mess of stone and metal, buildings half collapsed on both sides.
The large damage suffered by the city was largely caused by the bombardment that preceded the Mourano landings.

At the far end of the street was a cinema, its walls still mostly standing, but its interior gutted by a direct missile strike.
“I used to go there to watch films when I was eight,” said Nilson.
“You were born here, Corp?” inquired Sofia.
“No. I was born in Novaya. We moved here when I was seven,” clarified Nilson.
“Well, what do you know? The Corp was a kid once,” joked Kelly. They shared a quick, suppressed laugh, a point of light soon engulfed by the dark sea of war.
“Thanks, Kels. I’m only a year older than you, y’know,” growled Nilson.
“Yeah, I know. Just thought I’d lighten the moment.” She smiled sweetly at him.
“Well, ain’t this weird. Stranded in the middle of a warzone, enemies swarming around us, and we’re making jokes,” remarked Sofia, “Well, that’s Rangers for you.”

They stopped at the junction. Three possible choices.
“Which way, Jim?” demanded Kelly.
“Straight on, dumbass. Can’t you see the fort in the distance?” grumped Nilson.
“Yes… but I thought that the group of Warriors about three hundred metres along might change that somewhat,” she stated without a trace of superiority, which somehow made it worse.
“Ah crap. Sorry, Kels. My apologies. You’re quite right. We’ll find a way around.” He looked around, his vision eventually settling on the old subway entrance.
“Any objections to going underground, anyone?” he queried. Heads shaken. “Good. Because that subway goes straight to the fort. There’s a station right beneath it. We all got working NV?”
Hands went to helmets and checked the night vision mode on the multi-function display built in.
“Yup,” confirmed Sofia.
“Yes,” replied Stevens. Kelly just nodded. Nilson grinned.
“Right. Tunnel rats we are then. Follow me.”
They proceeded down the stairs.

As expected, the lights were out and they activated the night-vision mode on their visors to see. It also meant the power to the rail was out, which made it safer. A rustling could be heard.
“Alright, stay alert. There’s not much space, and we could run into anything down here,” whispered Nilson, his voice echoing eerily in the dark tunnel.
They moved in single file, Nilson leading, followed by Sofia and Stevens. Kelly brought up the rear. They could hear movement in the tunnels, as well as in the smaller access tunnels beside the main ones.
The ground shook slightly, dust falling on their shoulders, and a faint rumble could be heard, the crash of another spacecraft finding its end in the rubble.
Seconds later, a shadow fell across their vision. Kelly whirled and blew the Warrior’s head apart in a shower of green blood and pink brains with three shots. Its knife had been less than a foot from her head. Their ears rang from the loud noise, amplified by the confined space.
“Fuck,” exclaimed Kelly, a noticeable waver in her voice, “That was too close. The sooner we get out of these shit-holes, the better.”
“Come on. We’ve only got fifteen minutes.”
They moved on, even more wary than before. They passed another station, this one under a park. The words ‘North Bank’ could just be made out under the years of dirt.
“Hey,” called Sofia. They trudged over. The bodies of Rangers littered the steps and the still forms of Warriors could be seen further up.
“So we’re not the only one’s to try and use these tunnels to escape,” murmured Nilson.
“They know we’re here,” moaned Stevens, then he gasped as Kelly punched him in the stomach.
“Quit whining. Corp’s kept us alive so far, and I don’t see him letting us die now,” she growled. “Right, Corp?”
“Right. Let’s keep moving.”
“Uh, we may have a problem there, James,” Sofia said gravely, re-emerging from the tunnel ahead. She jerked her left thumb over her shoulder. “Tunnel’s caved in about fifty metres up. We gotta find another way out.”
“Shit,” cursed Kelly. She kicked an empty magazine across the deserted station in frustrated.
“Wasn’t it you that wanted to be out of these ‘shit-holes’?” asked Nilson amiably.
“Yeah, but going back out into those streets wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” grumbled Kelly.
They began making their way up the stairs to the surface, rapidly checking each dead Ranger for ammo as they did so.
“Hey, Jim. Look what I found.” Sofia tossed an object towards him, which he caught in his left hand. It surprised him so much, he had to look again to be sure.
“Chocolate?” he asked incredulously.
“Found it on one of the Rangers. He doesn’t need it anymore.” She shrugged.
‘That one action symbolises everything that’s wrong with war, thought Nilson, ‘However, I’m as hungry as she is.
“How much,” he asked.
“Two bars,” she responded, and held up the other.
“Half each,” he said, ripping open the wrapper on the bar he was holding. He dropped the wrapper, snapped the bar in two and gave half to Kelly. His own half went straight in his mouth, all at once. He tried to say ‘good work’, but “Gouth mwok,” was all he managed to say around the chocolate. Sofia laughed.
“What was that, Corp? I couldn’t understand around you stuffing your face,” she taunted. They all laughed again, another point of light to keep them sane.

As they stepped out into the street they were greeted by the harsh light of the flaming building opposite them, and by a pair of privates.
“Forget it, lads. Tunnel’s blocked. We go overground or not at all,” Nilson informed them. The two privates shrugged and started walking away again. He was about to call out to them again, when two Warriors jumped out of a first floor window and landed on the unsuspecting soldiers.
Nilson heard Stevens throw up as they watched the Warriors tear the unfortunate privates apart, blood and guts being flung everywhere.
The two Warriors then turned towards them, claws and teeth dripping blood, and an intestine was visibly hanging from the corner of one’s mouth. The two went for their weapons, but were blown apart by Nilson’s rocket and Sofia’s cannon before the weapons cleared the holsters. Stevens was back on his feet by this point, vomit smeared across his face and sleeve.
“Sorry,” he croaked. Unfortunately for him, they had to walk past the mutilated remains of the two soldiers, and he vomited again. Kelly looked at him with severe disdain, she hadn’t thrown up, even the first time she saw it. Her opinion of the flyboy had dropped another notch. The radio crackled before she could make a comment.
“Third Battalion, report numbers. Revised evac time, fifteen minutes from now,” said Adam Ralter’s disembodied voice.
“Ell-tee, we have four,” Nilson reported. Similar reports followed theirs, and Sofia made a quick count.
“Eighty-four,” she announced bitterly, “Eighty-four out of five hundred.”
They looked at each other soberly. They knew many of those five hundred, were good friends with several, knew each others families. And now, they were all that was left.
“Ell-tee, how many left from the other battalions?” transmitted Nilson.
“One-twenty-one from First, sixty-nine from Second,” he was told.
“Two hundred seventy four,” said Sofia hoarsely, “Out of fifteen hundred. Two hundred seventy four,” she repeated sadly, shaking her head.
“Two seventy three, Sof. He’s not a Ranger,” Kelly stated dispassionately, pointing at Stevens, “And if we don’t hurry up, it’ll be two hundred and seventy.”
“I hate to say it, Sof, but she’s right. Now’s not the time to mourn the dead. That comes after we’re safely out of this Hellhole,” confirmed Nilson. Sofia blinked away the tears forming in her eyes, and stared evenly at him.
“Right, I’m okay. Let’s go,” she told them.
“Kels, take point. Sof, cover our backs. Let’s move. We’ve got twelve minutes,” ordered Nilson.

They were halfway up the hill leading to the fort when the problems started again. They rounded a corner in the road and practically walked straight into a group of Mourano Soldiers, with a number of Warriors behind them.
At about the point they started shooting, the artillery unit chose to start firing again, shells whistling in and causing the ground to erupt in pillars of fire. The element of surprise had allowed them to hit four Soldiers as they took cover, but now they were pinned down by plasma fire from the eight remaining Soldiers, and the four Warriors were around somewhere.
“Cover me,” cried Kelly. Nilson and Sofia raised their weapons, fired a long burst and ducked back down. While the enemy had their heads down, Kelly sprinted across the road and crouched behind a large chunk of stone. Her 20mm gun went up on it, the stone providing a natural firing position. Her finger tightened around the trigger, hot death spraying out at the enemy. One Soldier was ripped in half by the stream of shells, leaking blood and other fluids over the ground as he died in excruciating pain.
A Warrior reared up in front of her and her arm went up in defence. She flinched as Stevens’ rocket shot past her face only inches away. The Warrior was knocked backwards, then it rose, half its face missing and looking even more like a nightmare. Kelly went down as well; the rocket had exploded only a metre from her own face.
A second rocket from Nilson’s rifle put the Warrior down for good. Kelly rolled over, her armour having protected her from the worst of the blast.
“Are you okay?” cried Nilson.
“I got a hole in my arm, and I need to visit the little girls’ room, but I’m still here. Ain’t getting rid of me that easy, Corp,” she replied. Nilson thought he saw her wink at him through the grimace of pain.
However, she had stopped firing when the Warrior appeared, allowing the Soldiers to emerge from cover. They were now relentlessly hitting their positions with plasma fire, preventing any form of response from Nilson’s group.
In a flash of inspiration, Sofia pulled a rocket from her pack, detached the rocket, slammed the warhead against the ground and threw it towards the enemy. It exploded on landing, the first impact with the ground having provided the same impulse as the rocket motor, which armed the warhead.
As it went off, she poked her head up and resumed firing, her shots drilling through a Soldier caught in the open.
“Where did you learn that?” asked Nilson as he blew a Warrior’s chest apart with a rocket.
“From the Sarge, where else?” she replied, grinning.
“Too true,” responded Nilson. The Sarge had been a fount of knowledge, warlike or otherwise, well liked and always quick with a joke to lighten the darkest moment. He would be sorely missed.
The withering hail of plasma fire dwindled to just a few shots, which stopped when Kelly blew the last Soldier’s head to pieces with a single round.
They stopped firing. A Warrior jumped up in front of Sofia, standing on the rubble she had been sheltering behind. Automatically, she aimed her gun at it and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked empty. In a smooth movement, she discarded it, drawing her knife and stabbing the Warrior in the throat, before reaching forwards drawing the plasma pistol from the holster, pressing it against the Warrior’s forehead and pulling the trigger. The Warrior’s head exploded in a blue flash of fire, spattering brains and blood everywhere. Sofia wiped her visor clean with her gloved hand, looking distastefully at the mess left on the glove. She rescued her knife from the Warrior’s throat, wiping it clean on her arm, then returned it to the sheath on her belt.
“Look,” cried Stevens, pointing at the sky. The other three followed the line of his arm. Eight small dots, gradually getting larger and lower. Nilson identified them as MV-13 Assegais.
“The evac ships. Come on, run. It’s only a few hundred metres,” yelled Nilson. Stevens ran forward, only to be confronted by the remaining Warrior. It lunged towards him, shots from Kelly’s machine gun killing it before it reached him. However, its momentum carried it forwards, into Stevens, bearing them both to the floor.
The three soldiers ran over. The Warrior was virtually covering Stevens’ body, the claws on its right arms deep in Stevens’ chest. There was blood at his mouth as he spoke,
“Leave me. I’m already dead. I’ve only slowed you down anyway.” His voice was a frail croak. Nilson and Sofia looked surprised when Kelly knelt down next to Stevens, resting her hand on his arm.
“Thanks for saving my life. Maybe you’re not so bad after all,” she said gently, her war worn face creasing into a smile. Her hand found his and squeezed it, a gesture which was feebly returned as Stevens eyes went dim and his head slumped back on the ground.
Their reverie was disturbed by the heavy thrum of the Assegais approaching the fort, and the cries of a large group of Mourano lower down the hill, steadily climbing up.
“Run,” cried Nilson, “Run for the hilltop.”
They ran, harder than they had ever run in their lives. Plasma fire lit sputtering fires in the ground and streaked past their heads. They reached the top and the waiting Assegais, where most of the troops were already on the transports, having seen the approaching enemy horde. Nilson and Sofia reached the nearest Assegai, Kelly lagging slightly behind. A plasma burst hit Kelly in the back of her shoulder, causing her to fall to the ground, crying out as she did so. Nilson turned, saw her and ran back to help her. The Assegais were lifting off, but Sofia climbed in, pushed forward and shoved her pistol in the pilot’s face, and yelled,
“You wait for them.” Her voice and the look in her eye brooked no argument.
Nilson dragged Kelly to her feet, threw her arm over his shoulder and carried her to the waiting transport. They bundled in, falling on several other soldiers and Sofia, having seen them safely on board, removed her pistol from the pilot’s face.
“Go, go, go,” she bellowed, and the pilot did not hesitate. He slammed the throttles forward and the Assegai rose rapidly and rocketed away from the old fort. Plasma fire could be heard hitting the armour on the underside, but it was not nearly powerful enough to penetrate it. Sofia collapsed down next to Nilson and Kelly, who was nursing the hole in her back.
“Thanks, Jim,” she said gratefully.
“I couldn’t just let you die. My life would be so much more boring. Who’d continually torment me,” he explained lightly. She laughed, winced, then laughed again, ignoring the pain.
“We both owe you big time, Sof,” he remarked. She shrugged,
“It’s nothing. You’d have done the same if it was me.” Another soldier edged over, a medical kit over his shoulder.
“You want me to look at that?” he asked. Kelly nodded and rolled over.
Nilson slumped back against the side of the transport and looked back out over Cararra, remembering all those who had fallen in the city. The city had fallen. For the second time in its history, Cararra had been overrun by hostile forces.

(OOC: Again, feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks.)

Hogsweat

23-12-2004, 20:04

Can I put something that is 5,475 (that's rounded down to 5,000 ; ) ) here? Also, it's a joint effort by me and Praetonia, is that okay?

Treznor

23-12-2004, 20:44

Can I put something that is 5,475 (that's rounded down to 5,000 ; ) ) here? Also, it's a joint effort by me and Praetonia, is that okay?
Since you asked so nicely, go for it.

Hogsweat

24-12-2004, 15:04

Since it was an RP we did at the time, it has some stats in it, but i'll do my best to remove them so you aren't spammed with numbers.

Some spelling mistakes..

Hogsweat Post
Admiralty Base, Liverpewl.
Admiral Clark slammed the beige folder down on the table.
"This gentlemen, is Operation: Victory Again"
Admiral Clark went on to explain the finer details, to the general Navy Staff at the meeting room.
"Basically, it consists of a carrier group operating off the African Cape, an invasion by Royal Marines, and some bombing raids. I must warn you gentlemen - this is NOT a MoD authorized operation. Top secret."
The Navy Staff around all nodded. This was usual - MoD and The Royal Navy were not friendly. It was a sort of feud between to the two departments.
Admiral Wavell, CiC of all Royal Marines operations, voiced his concern for his troops.
"How many men are you thinking of comitting here? Do we have recon of Praetonian positions? Do we have a blockade in place? How are we co-ordinating with the Army and the Airforce?"
General Wavell usually asked such questions - but Clark respected that. Wavell was a well known General, loved by his troops mainly because he was always in the front lines.
"Very well Dave."
Clark usually called the staff by their first names - it wasn't usually military policy in Hogsweat, but he wanted to feel friendly with his co-workers.
"I'm thinking of about four thousand of your guys, you can go if you want, around one thousand para's and some CSAL operations. Its all navy sponsored. We aren't getting Hogsweatian Army and RAF in on this."
Wavell nodded, and Clark ended the meeting with
"No more questions? Okay, the operation begins tomorow. Everything is in place."

Four hours later, Falklands Skies
The Mercator Spy Plane stayed high in the sky, taking pictures of Praetonian military bases and troop positions. Thanks to its partners, they had the whole picture.

Five hours Later, Port Stanley
"Okay Squadron Leader, do you have sights on target?"
"That is a ... positive, target is in our sights, bombs away!"

244 Squadron was a Avro Vulcan bomber squadron - five planes, as was its counterpart, 422 squadron, another Vulcan unit.

As 244 released its munitions, around thousands of kilograms of free fall bombs, 422 closed down and launched an array of missiles at the hangars.

The bombers flew away, thinking they were in the clear. But the sounds of bombs and missiles isn't quiet - Port Stanley authorities had alerted the nearby destroyer squadron, and they steamed towards the bombers, letting off Javelin anti-air missiles.

"This is squadron leader, got something on radar, its .. A MISSILE!"
Lights flashed, and the words
Pull up, Pull Up
Appeared on his screen. He knew what to do. Squadron leader pulled back on the throttle, sending the craft screaming downwards. But times had changed. That tactic no longer worked, as deadly reality came out on top and the missile smashed into the side of the Vulcan. It made a mighty explosion, ripping apart squadron leader's hull and sending the aircraft spiralling down into the wet ground. It was noted that Squadron Leader Blue 1, of 244 Squadron was definitly killed in action as his craft was noted to explode on contact with the ground.

Another missile was fired, and it zoomed at high speeds into the squadron, picking out a Vulcan that had engine problems - Wingman Blue 5, 244 squadron. The missile slammed right into his malfunctioning left engine, destroying it and the craft spiralled down. Thankfully, the rest of the pilots noticed a parachute ejecting, and as the craft exploded the pilot let off a flare. They prayed he would live.

As the ships had followed the craft out into the sea, Carrier Group: Noble decided to launch aircraft from a carrier, HMS - Colours.

Four squadrons, twenty aircraft of Sea Harriers launched quickly from Colours, and flew out of formation, scattered, towards the Praetonian fleet.

They were armed each with two Anti Shipping missiles, and two free fall bombs. As was standard practice, the Harriers began evasive targets, dodging missiles and canon fire to stream along side the ships, launching Sea Eagles at the bottom, hitting the bottom, just below the waterline with special anti shipping missiles. Then, their wingpartner would fly above dropping the bombs on the deck. However, this practice was risky.

"Okay Blue 2, i'm goin on on the side, come in in about ten seconds
"Roger that Blue 1"

Blue 1 streamed along the side, evading cannon fire, and launched his missiles. He tried to pull up, when he noticed he was leaking fuel. To his alarm a cannon shot had hit the fuel line, and he was out. With a scream, his life was estuingished as, in a last act of defiance, he crashed his plane into the side of the missile defence frigate. The bombs droppped hit the bridge, and to a multitude of cheering on the radio, the ship capsized, burning. The flames licked up the spilt fuel, as many of the Praetonian sailors that abandoned deck burnt to their deaths.

As his wingmate fell to a missile, Blue 8 was left with no missile counterpart - all he had left was his initial bombing run, as a missile he fired missed the bridge, and the second missile missed again and plunged into the water. He gritted his teeth, and flew straight at the deck of the ship, canon blazing at crew running for cover. He pulled back on the joystick, just as he reached the bridge, and cursed. Bombs stuck. The last thing he knew was seeing a Praetonian captain with wide eyes,staring unbeleivably as his staff dashed out of the bridge.

Blue 7, who hadn't been killed, just crashed and picked up by a Praetonian light cruiser, smiled as she watched the Harrier loaded with bombs smash into the bridge and bring another destroyer burning, crew jumping overboard.

Seeing all their squadron mates flying for home, objectives still alive, Red 1, 2, 3, and 4 dived down on a destroyer. The whole group fired all their missiles, eight anti shipping Sea Eagles right ontop of the deck, and also let their bombs loose right down onto the deck to. They pulled up, fled for home, but the heroes victory was short lived - the light cruiser opened up with missiles, bringing down Red 1 and 2 right ontop of the Praetonian destroyer they had just destroyed, crashing straight down and exploding onto it. The ship was doomed. Explosions rocketed all around, shrapnel flew and barely any Praetonian sailors made it off. Red 2 however, ejected and was picked up by the Praetonian light cruiser.

Praetonia Post
Emergency Meeting of the Cabinet, Praeton

On the morning of July 29th the memebrs Praetonian cabinet were woken by Imperial Police Officers at 3:00am, who then escorted them to an emergency meeting in the Cabinet Office. They were all groggy and tired, none of them had any idea of what was happening thousands of miles away in the Praetonian Falklands.

The Prime Minister himself arrived fashionably late, as always, although he had woken some time before. "Ladies and gentlemen, mere minutes ago the Falkland Islands were attacked by Hogsweatian military forces. This included a multitude of Avro Vulcan bombers, which sunk three of our ships stationed in the area. We also suspect that they are employing a substantial amount of naval force, inculding at least one carrier." At this point the Minister of Defence stood up and said,

"Then let us wipe their navy from the seas," he banged his fist on the table, "our intelligence tells us they have only 150 ships and they are of an old British design."

The Prime Minister, slightly annoyed at being interupted by the tired and slightly hung over Defence Minsiter said, "That is exactly what we dont want. I dont want a long and protracted war with this nation. The media know nothing and the only communication from the island is directly to secure government offices via converted undersea telegraph cable. All I want is these people off our islands."

The Defence Minister was too tired to argue, "Well how are we going to do it? Have they landed troops yet?"

The Prime Minister, happy that he wouldn't have to engage in the usual long disputes with his cabinet coleague again, said, "We shall defend ourselves of course. We shall order the ships to cause as much damage to their carriers as possible and we shall fortify ourselves. We have 5,000 heavy infantrymen on that island. They can do plenty to defend it. We shall fortify ourselves around the mount Pleasant military base and the major towns. That way we can win without a major war."

There was silence for a short while, and then the ministers all murmured their agreement, and walked out of the room, wondering how their troops were faring all that way away.

Hogsweat Post
Carrier Colours, Briefing Room

The admiral spoke up, above the rustling of the Harrier pilots.
"Alright gentlemen, listen up"
He took his stick thingy, and pointed it to a mountain in the Falklands.
"This is Mount Pleasant. Major military installation, our P4D's have found it and we are going to take it out. You will receive some help from the Vulcan squadrons, and you will get to know them well over the coming days. We know that we lost around seven planes, but we took out three ships, including a missile defence. All ships were noted out of action.
There was some minor cheering, but the pilots were all tight knit, and they had lost some good friends in the naval bombings.
"Of course, you wont be using anti-ship missiles for this next attack"
an image appeared, of a missile with a smaller laser point on the end.
"This, boys and girls is theElectronically Laser Guided Anti Installation Device. ELGAID, for you lazy people. The ELGAID, once pinpointed onto a target, will follow that target to the death. The ELGAID is most useful, because you can fly, get a laser point, fiire, and fly off without worrying if the missile will go astray because of your immediately ascension. In advance, you will be equipped with four of these missiles, each weighing 1300 KG of ordnance inside. Once the laser has guided the missiles own mini engine to the target, the engine is abandoned, it explodes, and the missile turns into a free fall bomb. The weight of the missile makes it usually unstoppable to land. Very nasty gentlemen. Now, since theres only 13 of you left... we are bringin some new recruits. They aren't like your old wingmates, they haven't fought yet and they are still cocky. Show them how its done. Alright, at ease. Shows over ladies and gentlemen."

The pilots left the briefing room, slightly discouraged at the losses and the new replacements. They knew the recruits would never match up to their friends.

Once the harriers were in the air, they entered a formation. The old pilots, decorated veterans, were getting irritated by the constant chatter of the young 'uns, as they were reffered to. It seemed like every second, this would pop up
"Lets show those Praetonian bastards hell!"
"Yeah! I can't wait to mush some of those trash!"
The veterans would scold the new recruits, with such phrases as
"Have respect for other nationalities. Your only here becuase they managed to kill what you replaced"

The chatter went on until the target was in range, and as it was the two squadrons split into wing groups of five, two a squadron. They split off, one wing group to the left of the squadrons starting, one to the right. As soon a they came in range, the AA defences flared up, and almost immediately a missile spun into the bottom of Blue 5's belly, trailing thick black smoke and bringing the plane down to the ground, hitting a tree and exploding. The chatter turned to cursing, as an enraged friend dived onto an AA emplacement, canon firing. The tracer cannon ripped threw the missile emplacement, destroying it in a fireball and the Harrier pulled up, doing a victory roll, as the pilot screamed through the mic
"Thats for you Charlie!!!"

Just as the Harrier's entered range, The squadron of Avro Vulcans (Still Eight of them) came into the islands, but the destroyer squadron was waiting for them. They turned their missiles on the bombers, downing another one and making another one head for home, smoke billowing out of its engines.
The Vulcans reached maximum height, unleashing their free fall bombs onto the base, and a lucky missile downed a Vulcan, as the tip went straight into the nose, exploding half way in the middle of the craft, turning it into a fireball of death. The vulcan crashed miles below. Noone survived.

The Vulcans turned for home, heading a different path to avoid the destroyers. High in the sk, an AWACS E3 monitored the situation, reporting everything back to Admiral Clark.

Several bombs had failed to detonate, but mainly most had hit Mount Pleasure.

Praetonia Post
Mt Pleasant Military Base

Mt Pleasant on the surface was little more than rubble. As soldiers ran to find cover or man anti-aircraft guns, their barrack blocks exploded outwards as missiles slammed into them. Men were gunned down by the planes as they ran to a safe place, although several planes were destroyed in return.

Luckily Mt Pleasant Military Base was not merely on the surface. All of the supplies, including the ammunition, were kept below ground, along with the emplaced light artillery and machinegun posts. Almost invisible to a casual observer, guns pointed out through the mountain at strategically place locations.

9th Destroyer Squadron, 17:00

The conference room aboard the flagship, the PWS Dragon, was a hive of activity. The Captains from the seven remaining ships had been summoned to the Dragon, where Rear Admiral Tiberius was to outline their plan of attack.

"Ladies and gentlemen, quiet down please," the Rear Admiral said casualy, and immediately the room fell silent, "we have received orders from Praeton to sail out and meet the enemy fleet. We have little chance of returning from this mission, even less of returning under our own colours, but this is our best chance to halt the invasion in the seas. Our main objective is to destroy the carriers, and if any are in the local, troop transports. Without carriers they will not be able to support their invasion. We move out at 22:00, hopefully the cover of darkness will give us some sort of advantage over the enemy. Prepare your ships. Dismissed."

The Captains returned to their ships and prepared for the attack. None of them believed they would ever come back, but they were prepared to do as much damage as possible to the enemy fleet.

9th Destroyer Squadron, 22:00

The ships silently engaged their engines, moving swiftly towards the projected location of the enemy fleet. The sleek trimarans elegantly breaking water with all their lights dimmed. The crew were silent. Not under order, but simply because of a sense of foreboding that everyone shared.

The bridge aboard the flagship was full of busy whispering. They had picked up the enemy fleet on passive radar. They were almost ready to fire. Slowly, the ships drifted into gun range, and the Rear Admiral broke radio silence.

"OPEN FIRE!"

At once the world shook, as dozens of naval cannon fired simultaneously and missiles streaked from their launchers. There was no longer any point in staying stealthy - the enemy knew where they were, spotlamps came up on every ship and they moved to flanking speed to engage the enemy fleet.

Only a few miles away, the enemy fleet fell into disarray. Shells and missiles smashed into the water and sent spray everywhere, but they were the least of the Hogsweatians' worries. An 8" shell buried itself into the flight deck of the HMS Truth and exploded, rendering it useless. Two missiles hit the carrier in the side, rocking the ship sideways and causing huge fires. Many of the crew abandoned ship as another missile slammed into the island, destroying much of the superstructure.

A further missile smashed into the second carrier, the HMS Colours, causing minor fires which were quickly put out. Two missiles hit the escort, the HMS Steel, pushing the ship sideways and almost ripping the hull in half. The crew jumped overboard as the ship sank beneath the waves. A missile also hit the HMS Kneel, turning the escort into a burning wreck as the superstructure caught fire.

The Praetonians did not celebrate. They knew what was coming next.

Hogsweat Post
Sailors watched in amazement as Kneel and Steel were ripped apart and turned into blazing wreckages. The Praetonians had caught them with their pants down - and now it was time to retaliate. As the fires in Colours blazed, Truth began to capsize. As soon as the deck was hit, Harriers started to take off, yet only one squadron managed to get out alive and fly back to Hogsweatian Grenada. The Lynx's on board got up, and flying dangerous sorties over the Praetonian fleets, using their missiles sparedly.

"This is Grayfire, im comin in for an assault on that Light Cruiser. Anyone with me?"

"Copy that, Redfire's a comin"

The two Lynx's came in on either side of the Cruiser, risking small arms and canon fire. Redfire, as it reached the middle of the Cruiser, turned and hovered to face it and fired off its torpedoes. Some sailors that had managed to get on board, had dragged a Bren gun on board with them, and were now leaning out the side with the modified belt fed version, spraying the deck with .303 bullets. Redfire hovered upwards, and was hit in the bottom by an AA missile. It exploded mightily, the sailors and pilots jumping out into the sea. Grayfire had hovered basically onto the deck, and was now twirling round above soldiers heads, the sailors inside priming depth charges and rolling them onto the deck. After this was complete, Grayfire hovered backwards, away, firing its Sea Skua missiles onto the ship. One missed, but the other went spiralling into the front of the hull.

The Cruiser, visibly from Colours was burning, but it kept firing. There was a gaping hole in the hull, several meters from the waterline, but the gun ontop kept shooting at Reconciliation, who retaliated, firing to its port side, blowing a small crater on the deck line.

Once the main fires were out, Colours launched three Harriers with Sea Eagle anti shipping missiles.
"Okay Red two and three, stay in formation lets bring this thing down"
The destroyer was being a pain already, and this particular one had shot at Steel, bringing the bridge collapsing onto the craft.
"Stay in formation, we are approachng... SPLIT SPLIT SPLIT"
The three harriers split off, and came down, firing missiles and cannon crazily at the destroyer. It could simply not handle that amount of firepower. The thing exploded, the top of the deck searing off, and capsizing sideways into the murky south Atlantic waters.

Two Praetonian destroyers were closing in on Ashen, an old Type 22. They had already immobilized it, and t stood no chance, it was a wonder why they were still in production. Reconciliation and Magnificent steamed towards the Praetonian destroyers, Swiftsure dived, and let loose its Spearfish torpedoes, three concentrated, below the waterline blowing a massive hole into the destroyers hull, and making it begin to sink, water flowing into the lower decks and working its way up.

Praetonia Post
The PWS Dragon was burning. Almost a quarter of the crew was dead and the superstructure was beginning to collapse. Nobody left. The ship turned to sideways face the Reconciliation and loosed a broadside of 8" guns. Four of the shells flew wide, but the other four smashed through the deck and exploded inside the ship, destroying the engine and hitting the fuel. The Reconcilitation appearded to visibly lift someway out of the water before falling back down as the hull snapped in half.

The Praetonian destroyer straddled by torpedoes near Ashen let out a horrible death rattle. As components jarred inside the ship it's magazines began emptying. The guns were automatically firing and all of the VLS missile cells emptied themselves into the Ashen. The ship was hit by a score of Lance Anti-Shipping Missiles and multiple shells. The vessel rocked backwards and forwards as the metal began to burn. It was mere seconds before the Ashen sunk beneath the waves. The Praetonian destroyer, the PWS Guard, began to list sideways as it's starboard outrigger filled with water.

The anti-missile frigate opened fire on the Harriers with every weapon it had, it's crew desperate for revenge after her sister ship was sunk by a a kamikaze attack earlier the same day. Crew members who's stations were destroyed got out on deck and fired at the helicopters with their rifles.

Hogsweat Post
As horrified pilots watched Ashen crumble and be destroyed, as was Reconciliation, they jumped into their harriers, the flames extinguished, and without order flew into the air to avenge the sailors. Immediately spotting the other Destroyer next to Ashen's death spot, they plunged down, the pilots reciting the names of every crew member they knew on the doomed ships Reconciliation and Ashen.
As the last name was spoken, the Harriers let loose their bombs, falling onto the deck of the destroyer, that was trying to chug away. Fiercely, Captain Brian Hayes, went in for a gun run with his 30mm. The harrier descended like a Stuka, guns screaming, punching holes through the bridge, killing the commodore and his staff. The harrier's cheered as Magnificent turned, letting off another salvo of torpedoes, that broke into the destroyers armour, bringing it to its knees, as the Hayes fired to Sea Eagles into its Engines. On some Harriers, it was custom for pilots to fit in coloured engine smoke. Hayes had always done this, and he flew over the top of the sinking destroyer, switching to his red white and blue smoke. But no... they had to credit that destroyer. It was still alive, and it chugged away. The pilots and sailors were distasted at its escape - while the harriers returned back the carrier, ammunition and bombs empty.

Captain Hayes, leaning on a crate of supplies, looked out to sea. He saw the submarine Magnificent picking up some survivors from the Praetonian ship and Ashen and Reconciliation. Then, a big grin overtook his face as he shouted to his wingmates and sailors to come watch. The destroyer, trying to make an easy escape, was intercepted by Pillar of Autumn. They gasped, in shock, horror, and then laughed as PoA rammed the ship, breaking straight through its weakened hull.

Praetonia Post
The stricken destroyer, the PWS Reaper, was smashed almost in half as the Pillar of Autumn rammed right through the destroyer's weakened hull. The crew, desperate to escape from their dying ship grabbed rifles and jumped onto the Pillar of Autumn. They were fighting for their lives, gunning down Hogsweatian sailors as machineguns fired back, pinning the Praetonians down in front of the ship's main gun.

Behind them, their ship broke in two and each half sunk as the outriggers broke from the main hull. Some of them turned and slumped against the turret face and cried as their ship, their home, was destroyed before their eyes. The stood up and charged towards the superstructure where Hogsweatian marines were waiting with machineguns, rifles and cannon. They fired into the mass of Praetonian sailors, but for all those who fell none who survived stopped for a second. When they reached the Hogsweatians they killed any they saw, before the last Praetonian was finally brought down.

Hogsweat Post
Hayes was miserable, and sitting on the side of the crate looking into the waters didn't help. Thoughts spun through his mind. Was he a jinx? His first wingmate, one of his best friends since acadamy, Lieutenant Tarina Rickers, shot down in the first raid. Sure, the Admiral had said that they had sunk three ships, but had the Admiral lost a friend? Had that Admiral seen his best friend shot down, harrier careering into the water? Hayes kept seeing her face in the water, looking back at him. And the other guy? Hayes didn't even know his name, the new recruit in the Mount Pleasure raid. He had been killed even before the raid started.

The fire exstinguisher opened up, spreading the flames in a white foamy mass. Tarina, exhausted, dropped the fire exstuingisher for a rest. When her plane had crashed into the ocean, she was picked up by PWS Dragon, and was now helping to fight fires on board the doomed Praetonian ship.

The Navy Lynx, Bluefire, loaded up its missiles and went in for another raid. The light cruiser was barely afloat - The waterline had risen, but the guns and engines were still in action. Most of the crew were dead, and fires raged throughout the ship.
Blue fire came round the back, near the engines, and hovered at point with the deck. The pilot was about to pull the release button, when a crewman came out on deck with a rifle. It was old, bolt action, and the pilot wasn't really worried. Especially when he was dead. The co pilot tried to steer away, but the crewman fired again, hitting him in the head. The body fell onto joystick, and the Lynx turned in circles, and crashed into the engines.

There was a mighty roar, and Hayes looked up - he could see on the light cruiser that a Lynx had just crashed into the back, destroying the engines and turning the back of the ship into another fireball.

Praetonia Post
The back of the Dragon went up in flames, rocking the ship and causing secondary explosions in the rear magazines. Internally a massive fireball ripped the decks apart killing any who were left standing on them. The ship was alight and going down rapidly by the stern.

The crew still aboard were shell shocked but resigned to their fate. They didn't leave their station. The guns were still firing in the front battery. Sailors were on deck firing automatic rifles into the enemy ships and helicopters. The ship lifted and men and women were thrown backwards down the deck. Still they kept firing. They stood to their posts. No order came to abandon ship and they would not abandon it.

The PWS Dragon took one more mighty heave into the air and slipped backwards under the waves. For a second, the ship's colours poked just out of the oily black water, before joining thier ship in it's watery grave.

Hogsweat Post
A tear drifted down the face of the Commodore of Covenance, Alex Tie. His mouth wavered, and he spoke
"These people have fought so bravely. We come, we bomb them... and they fight like heroes. A minute of silence for those brave souls"
The whole room turned silent.
"Ensign, set a course for the wreck of PWS Dragon. There may still be survivors. And fast!"

The Covenance streamed towards the crash site, its Hogsweatian colours lowered and United Nations colours raised.

Admiral Trense watched the situation with a grimace. They had fought well, but war was war. The planes were fueled up - time to knock out the rest.

The fifteen remaining Harriers dusted off, formationless, and they split up into the usual wingpartners. Running alongside the side of the missile defence frigate, they unleashed death to the deathly ship. Around thirty Sea Eagle anti shipping missiles unleased on the sides, back, deck, front, ripping the ship up apart.

Praetonia Post
The missile defence frigate, the PWS Repulse, despite shooting down many of the missiles was ravaged by multiple hits. The ship was on fire and most of the crew above deck was dead. The ship was going down, but she would fly her colours to the last. The Captain was still alive, and he struggled to the ship tannoy and said, "Anyone who wishes may leave now. Anyone who stays shall fight and die with honour. That is all." Nobody abandoned ship.

The surviving destroyer, the PWS Ferdinand, turned to commence a final run against the carrier. It sped to flanking speed and fired it's small 4.5" gun. The ship's missile batteries were long since depleted, and they were left with only a light gun armament. Even the 30mm cannon were employed against the carrier, as the Captain set a course to ram.

Hogsweat Post
Crew shouted as they saw the Ferdinand approaching the carrier - at a moments notice the Lynx's were up in the air, hovering around the target spraying it with mounted troops armed with Bren guns, and with all remaining Sea Skua Missiles the helicopters had left. On board the carrier, the anti-missile canons were hotwired by Navy Technicians to fire at the ship - all available naval resources at the site, minus the Covenance, were shooting at the PWS Ferdinand, yet it seemed to steam ahead no matter the damage.

Praetonia Post
The Ferdinand was now a blazing wreck, just as her flagship had been minutes before. The Bren guns had little effect, bouncing off the kevlar plating, but the hundreds and coming near thousands of 30mm cannon shells were taking their toll, smaching through the kevlar in concentrations and shredding whatever was inside. Most of the crew had jumped overboard, but nevertheless, several thousand tonnes of ship were still moving dangerously close to the carrier, automated cannon firing as it went.

Aboard the Repulse, things were looking no better. The ship had taken horrific damage and was veering precariously sideways low in the water. However the ship moved to support her dying comrade, the Ferdinand. The Repluse, however, went for the helicopters. A man crouched behind the gun shield of his cannon, peering over briefly to scan for targets. He saw a Navy Lynx straying from an attack run on the Ferdinand and cycled up to fire, the helicopter turned to face him and he fired. 30mm shells smashed through the glass cockpit, killing the pilot instantly and sending the stricken helicopter into the sea.

Hogsweat Post
The battle was nearly over. The sea burned, wrecks collapsing into the Falklands seas. Equipment was washed up on the shore of the Islands - the people knew something was happening.

As the third Navy Lynx fell, Magnificent powered forwards majestically and halted in front of the missile cruiser, torpedoes shooting forwards from the tubes. Four, in a distinct penetration pattern, cruising and hitting the side of the Praetonian ship.

Praetonia Post
he Repulse reeled from the torpedo attack and half exploded, before the burning wreck fell into the sea. The crew tried to escape as best they could but many were pulled under or hit by shrapnel from the seconary explosions aboard their dying ship.

The Ferdinand had given all it could, but ws finally beginning to sucumb to the ruthless attacks launched apon it. It was near the carrier now, ever so close, but it was slowing down. The Ferdinand gave one last burst of power and rammed into the carrier at full speed, causing the hull to crunch horribly, but it was not enough. The carrier was damage but alfoat, and the Ferdinand had sunk beneath the waves. The sea battle for the Falklands was over.

OOC: IT wasn't written specially or anything, I just transcribed it straight from the thread. =)

Layarteb

28-12-2004, 02:15

The Official Layartebian Submission

This is taken from The Kingdom of Forgotten Warriors (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=380343). It is 2,969 words so it should be workable. Thanks guys.

Part XIII: Oxidizer

"Sir, Colonel. The new M33s arrived sir." A soldier ran down the hall after Colonel Delaney, deep underground in the Force Falcon base of operations. "Colonel!" Colonel Delaney was reading over a memo and not paying attention, more or less, just guiding himself. He wasn't paying any attention until the soldier finally caught up to him. "Sir, Colonel." Colonel Delaney turned around and saluted the soldier. "Sir, Colonel. The new M33s arrived. You said you wanted to be notified."

"Yes I did. Good work Corporal. Where are they?"

"Coming into bay 3 sir."

"Thank you." They saluted and Colonel Delaney immediately turned and headed towards bay 3. He came in just in time as the M813A1 was backing in, loaded with six crates of the new M33 pistol and another eleven of ammunition. "Specialist. Is that the..." The Specialist saluted and Colonel Delaney followed. "Are those the M33s?"

"Yes sir. I take it you would like one?"

"Certainly would. What caliber again?" The truck parked and a forklift moved to the back of it to unload the crates.

"Forty S&W and Forty-Five ACP sir."

"Forty S&W huh? I'll have to try that one."

"First crate coming off sir. Once we get them logged in you can have the first one. The firing range is open so I'll give you a few magazines as well sir."

"Thank you Specialist." The Colonel saluted and the Specialist returned. He then watched as the forklift offloaded each crate with care and placed them onto pallet jacks where awaiting workers carried the to the receiving office, which was just outside of the bay. It took nearly an hour but all weapons and ammunition were accounted for. "Now how about that weapon Specialist?"

"Very well sir. Take the M33A3, it's a forty S&W. Sixteen round magazine. How does ten sound?"

"Works for me. Thank you." Colonel Delaney immediately shot off to the firing range, the weapon holstered and the magazines in his pockets so as to not arouse suspicion. When he got to the firing range he found that only one other slot was occupied, by his second in command, Mark Wilkins, a lieutenant colonel. They saluted. "I got one of those new M33s."

"Really? I wonder how it is?"

"Me too. I'm about to try it out." He withdrew it from the holster. "Good weight, all black. Double action. Single or three round burst. Sixteen round mag. Forty S&W. Looks like about nine and a half inches long. Pretty good weight actually here feel it." He handed the pistol over and LTC. Wilkins held it and shook it a little. He handed it back, nodding in agreement. "Probably comes out at thirteen hundred feet per second. Figure the standard hundred and fifty meter effective range. Now for the fun part." He slapped in the magazine and hit the slide release. He unlocked the trigger guard and disengaged the rear safety. He held it up, right hand on the right side of the pistol and his left hand cupped around his right. He looked down the sights and stared down at the target, some fifty meters away. He put the sight just below the Bulls-eye and fired. A single round let out of the chamber at thirteen hundred and fifty feet per second and spiraled through the air, impacting the target at the Bulls-eye. The recoil was manageable and the barrel had risen an inch off target. Colonel Delaney put the sight back on target and fired again. He did that throughout the entire magazine and watched as the slide kicked out that the magazine was empty.

http://www.kromerizsko.cz/airsoft/wma.1.jpg

He hit the return button for the target and it came back to him. "Not bad. Sixteen for sixteen."

"Not bad sir. That's a new record."

"Indeed. Let's see what burst is like?"

"Definitely sir." He put his earplugs back in and replaced the target paper. It returned back out to fifty meters and he slapped in another magazine, switched the fire selector to burst, and resighted it. He sighted it still further down from the Bulls-eye and squeezed the trigger. Three rounds exited the barrel and flew towards the target, the recoil being significantly more but still manageable. He pulled the trigger five more times, the last time only one bullet coming out. It worked perfectly. He hit the return button again and looked at the target. "Two in the chest, one in the head. Perfect ride up."

"Indeed sir. Mind if I get a try?"

"Certainly, here." He handed off the pistol and two magazines. They continued that way until they had used up all ten magazines. Colonel Delaney reholstered the pistol and went down to the receiving docks. He saluted the Specialist and went into his office. "Perfect weapon if I must say so. Do I return these to you?" He put the empty magazines and the pistol on the desk.

"No sir, they're yours now. The armory will be able to take those empty magazines from you and refill them. Your team is already allotted their share of pistols so just be sure to tell the armory chief that you are not in need of yours or else our counts will be off."

"Thank you Specialist. Have a good day." Colonel Delaney immediately went to the armory and went up to the window. The Corporal saluted and he returned.

"How may I help you sir? The new M33s are in."

"Roger that. I snagged one from the docks. Mark me off as having one. Here's the pistol for the serial number adjustment."

"Thank you sir." He took the pistol and punched in some numbers on the computer and changed the serial codes for the issues. Then he handed it back. "What is it that you are looking for?"

"Well I've got some empty magazines to turn in. Other than that, what toys do you have for this?"

"Laser sight, silencer, and a flashlight."

"Give me one of each. I'm not fond of the laser sights or the flashlights but you never know when it'll come in handy."

"Indeed sir. Ten magazines?"

"A little fun."

"Roger that. Here are five to replace those, what you usually take correct sir?"

"Five it is. One for the load, four for the belt."

"Roger that. Any other ammunition?"

"My M30A2 could use a new barrel and I could use some magazines."

"Roger that. Let me check into that." He left the window and headed to one of the many shelves inside the armory. He returned four minutes later with a barrel and seven magazines. "How is seven sir?"

"Fine by me."

"Very well. Let me just catalog this."

"Take your time."

"Says here you aren't due for another barrel change for some fifteen thousand rounds?"

"I know."

"Sir you know the rules."

"I do."

"I need a reason then sir. I'm sorry."

"I like to have fresh tools."

"That one didn't work the last time sir. You know I can't."

"Very well. Just give me the magazines then."

"Yes sir. Anything else?"

"What other toys do you have in there that I haven't played with yet?"

"Not much sir. Just some breeching charges."

"That'll be it then. Have a good day Corporal."

"You too sir." They saluted and Colonel Delaney left with the magazines and the pistol. He went to his quarters and placed the magazines neatly in his drawer, right by his M30A2. It was equipped with a 203MM grenade launcher, an M68 Aimpoint Scope, a suppressor, and he had a laser sight and flashlight for it but neither were fitted, though they would be placed on the side rails. He placed a fresh magazine into the M33A3 and reholstered it. But before he could sit down and pencil in his journal, his phone rang. "Colonel Delaney. Yes sir. Of course. Fabulous. Room 2? Immediately sir." Just when I get a chance to sit down... He left his office and made a bee-line for detention room 2. Three men were inside the well lit room, one of them being the prisoner, Mikhail Polenin. Included in the other two men was the operations commander of Force Falcon, a two star, major general. The other was just the interrogator. "Ahh Colonel. So nice of you to join us." The two guards at the door had let him in and locked the door behind him. "It seems that Mr. Polenin has outlived his usefulness."

"And of his confessions?" Colonel Delaney asked. The interrogator knew to keep quiet and only to speak when addressed.

"He has revealed good information. Why don't you repeat it Mr. Polenin."

"Rot in hell." The interrogator moved across the room quickly with his hand raised. "Fine. Not again. Not again. There is a meeting today in Kaliningrad. In the Hotel Aviant, room 623. It's to discuss a massive plan of action against Primorsk. I was supposed to attend but I do not know of the details of the meeting."

"What time is this meeting Mr. Polenin?"

"Twenty-three hundred."

"Very well. Colonel, do you have anything to ask of him?"

"One question sir."

"Very well."

Colonel Delaney stared into the eyes of the man whose wife and brother he had murdered. He looked with cold and heartless eyes. He stared into the soul of a man who had lost everything and had nothing left to lose. "I'm sorry for hell what happened to your wife and brother. I pulled that trigger and I started the fire. There isn't a regret I have. My wife and son were taken from me way back when by a psychotic maniac who I beat to death with my own hands. If we were to unrestrain you I have no doubt you would do the same yourself."

"I would tear your eyes out."

"Very well. Major General, what are we to do with this prisoner?"

"He's of no use to us. We could kill him or we could ship him back to Layarteb. He could live the remainder of his natural life in a detention camp."

Colonel Delaney withdrew his pistol and unlocked the safeties. "What do you want Mr. Polenin?"

"A cigarette and the vision of my wife."

"Very well. Give him a cigarette." The interrogator placed one in his mouth and lit it. Mikhail took two deep puffs and began to pray in Russian. "Sir?"

"Let him finish." The Major General left the room and the interrogator followed. Colonel Delaney took a step back to avoid the blood splatter and Mikhail kneeled and faced the wall.

"May God have mercy on your soul Colonel Delaney. You need it more than I do."

"I have no soul..." He pulled the trigger and the bullet spiraled through the back of Mikhail's head and down, through his brain, and out of his face, just below his nose, blowing out a massive hole. It then slammed into the concrete wall and became lodged, a splatter of blood and brain matter all over the wall and the floor. I have no soul... Colonel Delaney exited the room and walked back to his quarters. He hadn't got a single speck of blood or brain matter on him. He had done well. At 1600, he attended a briefing for the raid that would net the meeting in the hotel. Surveillance was already set up in the hotel and the room was being watched closely from multiple points. The plan was read and reread in the briefing room. At 1800, the briefing ended and they headed out to the armory, to each load up on what they needed. Colonel Delaney had everything he needed in his quarters and returned there.

He would go out with his MP5A6. It had the folding butt stock and he would carry with him four dual-mount clips. This was really eight clips, bundled in four pairs of two to allow for quick reloading. Each clip held thirty 9 x 19mm rounds, sixty at the ready with the dual mounts. He had the flashlight mounted and didn't want to use it but it was entirely possible that he would need it. He would also carry his new M33A3. He had the five magazines that he was given, one of which had only fifteen rounds in it, that one being the one in the pistol. He also would take his Seal Knife 2000. His grenade load out would consist of three M84 Flashbangs, two M67 Fragmentations, and one M83 Smoke Grenade. The other members of his team would take a similar load out, some taking the P90 or the UMP over the MP5. Since none of them had previous experience with the new M33, none of them took it but rather took their own pistols, which was, for this case, the Mk.23 SOCOM pistol. They were all taking silencers for this mission and some had flashlights and laser sights mounted. Colonel Delaney mounted the laser sight on his M33A3.

They traveled to the hotel via Bushmaster, Major Malforn being their personal escorts now as he was already aware of their presence. They pulled up to the building across the street, a known Layartebian military command post. This made the meeting even more significant. The insurgency thought it was important enough to hold in the safest location, just underneath the nose of the Layartebian military. Force Falcon deboarded the Bushmaster and went into the command post but immediately made a beeline for the basement, heading underneath the street via a VIP escape route. This hotel was frequented by Parliamentary Ministers, when Parliament was still around. Using a service elevator, they headed up to the sixth floor and at 2320, when they were sure that everyone was present, moved from their location in one of the VIP suites and to room 623. They walked quickly and quietly, crouched, weapons shouldered. A few people were walking around and they were told to immediately get into their rooms.

Room 623 was a VIP suite but with no alternative exit sans the second door. Four men would take one door and four men would take the other door. Surveillance put two roaming guards outside the room, each armed with submachine guns. As they came around the corner and were just one turn away from the hallway to Room 623, power in the hallway was cut and only in the hallway. Colonel Delaney rounded the corner with his pistol drawn, laser sight off, night vision goggles on. He popped off two shots, each into the neck of each of the two roaming guards, killing both of them silently and without resistance. They fell to the floor with a thump and were dragged into the surveillance room.

Now it came time for the assault. Inside the room, none of the eighteen men knew what was going on outside. There were ten bodyguards, all armed with submachine guns. The other eight men were all priority targets, four of them being commanders for the insurgency. The other four were operations lieutenants, still high up on the food chain. They were all armed as well, with pistols and would have to be taken alive. Doctors were waiting in the surveillance room with medical kits to treat bullet wounds. The plan of action, if they would not surrender, was to shoot them in the shoulder to put them on the ground. The eight men split into two teams and each covered a door. A small breaching charge of C4 was placed on the frame, right by the door knob. It would blow the locking mechanism clean off. They would throw an M84 in immediately after.

The charges were set and the fuses placed. An electronic detonator would blow them both at the same time. The countdown began. "Five...Four...Three...Two..." LTC. Wilkins pushed the button and the charges blew, shattering the locking mechanisms and echoing throughout the entire sixth floor and room 623, sending its eighteen men in a frenzy. M84 Flash Grenades followed, two per door. Then the men pounced and pounced hard. With his MP5A6 shouldered, Colonel Delaney tagged two of the body guards with six rounds total, two in the chest and one in the head. The other three men in the initial room were all priority targets, whom were writhing on the floor in pain from the flash. They were reaching for their pistols but were given swift kicks to keep them down.

At the other door, the four men killed six bodyguards. There were three priority targets there. Each of the two teams split into two more teams, two men staying with the priority targets and the other two to explore the suite further. There were another three rooms remaining, the kitchen, the bathroom, and a dinning room. There were still two more bodyguards and two more priority targets to go. The four men moved in, one group in the dining room and another into the kitchen. They tagged another bodyguard and located another priority target in the kitchen, hiding behind the refrigerator. There was only one room left, the bathroom. They used an M84 to stun them and it did well, both of them hiding in the bathtub. The bodyguard went first, taking three rounds to the head from Colonel Delaney.

The mission was over and a success. Of the eight priority targets only two had to be shot and they were given immediate medical attention. When they were okay to be moved, they were taken, along with the other six men, to the Force Falcon bunker outside of Kaliningrad. A cleanup crew came and swept the room from floor to ceiling, making it completely habitable again. It appeared, when they were done at 0800 the next morning, as if nothing had ever occupied the room. The cleaning job was much better than that of the hotel maids.

Stomps

01-01-2005, 05:35

can i give it ago?

Treznor

01-01-2005, 07:00

can i give it ago?Anyone who wants to can contribute what they think is their best. Goodness knows, many have already. :-)

Sermac

02-01-2005, 00:45

“Untitled”

The gentle patter of the rain against her window and the footfalls of the stranger was all she could hear. She had locked her bedroom door, but if he has gotten this far that will be a small barrier for him. She lay there eyes wide, ears alert and heart pounding inside her chest. He has arrived at the door, and as she thought, the lock is a very small barrier for him. She moves into a position that would be a normal sleeping position and slows her breathing the best she can. “Why don’t I have a gun or knife, or at least a blunt object!” she screams inside her head. He opens the door ever so slowly taunting her senses. “Hello” he voices in a surprisingly calming voice. “Oh crap, she thinks, no use pretending sleep.” She rolls over to face her intruder. She can’t see his face but the rain on his trench coat reflects enough light to out line his body. “He’s pretty thin, I can take him.” She thinks with mounting hope. He leans over her small twin bed and places his forefinger to her lips gesturing for her not to scream. He stands and begins removing his coat. She isn’t sure what he is doing only watching with wide, horrified eyes. He has moved to his shirt, undoing the buttons slowly, all the time keeping his hollow gaze on her. She realized at the third button what he was planning to do. She sat up getting ready to bolt. He saw and knew what she was about to do and threw a strong arm around her waist. The maneuver left him sitting on the bed with her in his lap. “Try that again and I might not be so nice.” He whispered in and odd mixture of menace and lust. He placed her all too gently next to him and stood up to resume his undressing. He continued removing his clothes in the slowest of ways knowing that watching him was the worst of tortures for her. He considered this almost as foreplay. He was finally done and sat on the bed simply looking at her. In his look she saw that he was asking her if she would undress herself or would he have the pleasure. “No way, jackass!” she almost screamed at him but then thought better of it. “If looks could kill, he thought, I would have died at least nine times by now.” He sighed realizing she wouldn’t undress herself. He reached up towards her neckline; she grabbed his arm in one last attempt to stop him. Her strength he could feel all the way up his arm, not just her physical but her inner. He knew he could easily overpower her but that wasn’t his way, so he let her push his arm away. He still had a bit of a conscience left and boy was it nagging at him now. He looked at her sincerely and with compassion in his eye, hoping it wouldn’t give her too much hope. “This will go on anyway I simply want to make it easier for you.” The look in her eye told him she didn’t believe that. Suppressing her fears she said as quietly as possible “If you want to make this easier, leave.” He didn’t move and she sighed trying to face the inevitable. He brushed his hand along side her cheek and moved it slowly to her neckline. He paused but she didn’t remove his hand so he continued. He unbuttoned her nightgown slowly this time not for torture but because he was reveling in her skin. He was afraid for the first time since as far back as he could remember. Her skin was as soft as silk and he almost came because of her skin alone. He finally had her unclothed; he sat up to admire her. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Tenderly he explored her body every inch of it. He covered her body with his and whispered in her ear “I’m sorry it had to be this way but I will try to make it as enjoyable as possible.” She shuddered not from what he said but by the foreign sensations arising in her. With the tip of his tongue he circled her ear, taunting her, dipped his tongue into her ear then sucked her ear lobe into his mouth. She sucked in a gasp of breath as molten lava flowed through her veins. He continued this taunting on down her neck then back to her mouth. He paused to breath and rested his forehead on hers and gazed into her eyes. “Touch me” he implored. Tentatively she placed her hand on his cheek. “You know what I mean” he growled. She placed her other hand on his cheek and brought his lips down to hers. She kissed him deeply showing far more emotion than she had meant to. Their tongues fought in mock battle all the while her hands had started roaming over his body has his had covered hers. She had avoided the crucial part of his anatomy until he stopped her hands on his chest and moved them lower, never removing his lips from hers. She tensed not wanting to touch that part of him. He felt her tense and whispered against her lips, “Don’t fear.” He moved her hands ever lower until she felt his rigid manhood. She gasped not knowing it would feel like velvet steel. He couldn’t stand it any longer he spread her legs with his knees and positioned himself. He moved gently against her using his fingers to open her up. He looked at her and gave her a wicked grin. He held his position just about to go in but not quite. He stayed there watching her writhe in need until she took it upon herself and thrust upward. She had never before felt such a sharp pain before it felt as if he was ripping her apart. He paused giving her time to adjust all the while grinning at her impatience. He began moving inside her, moving in a different way every time giving her euphoria with every thrust. With every movement inside her the pressures grew until she thought she would explode. She felt her self soaring higher and higher when suddenly her world shattered in firework colors. He came soon afterward never before reaching the height he had nor had he ever came that soon. He laid down on her, resting his head atop her shoulder, and breathing the cool air deeply. She was ashamed at her reaction to him but his presence there was wrong but felt so right. She thought and considered what it would be like to have this all the time, every night for the rest of her life. The thought unreasonably saddened her knowing she could never have this. She fell asleep in satisfied ecstasy with this on her mind.

Hope ya'll like it. Response would be appreciated. ;)

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