"Literary Atrocication" - Fiction dump

[SquidDNA]

I don't know, Starfisher came up with the title. His mind is sexy

POST YOUR SHORT WRITING

I'll begin. This was one of those "post a memory of me that never happened" on someone's livejournal, but I thought it turned out pleasingly for a meme.

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It was raining that morning. I was waiting in the car, just down the street, forty feet away, reading a newspaper. The Cubs had won a game.

Blue and grey, the city was having its soot washed away, or at least on the street, moved around, so it could collect in puddles near the stormdrains where the water never quite made it, and dry (but clean) it would look like ash.

The wipers swept across the windshield every so often, pointlessly, while the motor ran, as if I expected a girlfriend or a daughter to emerge from the boutique I was parked in front of. A woman with a dog had scowled at me earlier for idling in a spot she would have much preferred.

I heard a gunshot. "Crap." I threw the paper in the backseat and put the car into drive, brakes still on. I stared intently down the street. It wasn't time yet, but then Waldo had obviously screwed up.

Waldo should never have come on this job. He was a goofy screwup with bad eyesight and a perplexing tendency to wear winter caps on hot summer days. In short, he could always be found in a crowd, and he didn't have the nerve for this sort of work. Two blurry figures stumbled out of the bank. I put my gun in my lap and raced towards them, skidding a little on the wet pavement as I reached them.

"She's hurt, Squid. It was fucked up in there."
"Get her in!"

You were bleeding from the scalp-- it just looked like a graze wound, nothing too threatening, the Prof would fix you up. I can see why you wouldn't remember that, though. The pain and the mild concussion. The skull wasn't really made for deflecting bullets, but now and then I've seen it happen. He layed you down across the backseat along with the cash, closed the door, and opened the passenger side.

I shot him three times in the chest, pulled the door shut, and sped away. Goddamn good for nothing screw up. When we were a few blocks away, I flipped the toggle that held the fake plate on the back, it blew and tumbled into the gutter. I got on the ring road and began our way to the other side of the city.

I heard you shifting. "Just rest, Ren, we'll get you well." Not to be deterred, you propped yourself and asked, "Where's Waldo?"

[Starblade]

Time to dig my Homeworld fan fiction out for all to giggle at. Except I edited it a bit.

Into the Infinite

Zerephel took one last look at Hiigara before he left. He had only been there a week, a week since the Hiigarans took the planet back but to Zerephel, it felt like a year. As his Interceptor prepared to enter space, he remembered Kharak, the Khar-Toba, the Khar-Selim. Zerephel remembered the burning of Kharak and the destruction of the Scaffold, he remembered the hunting down of the fleet that burned all that he ever cared for.

In front of him he saw the Great Nebula of Kadesh, and its Protectors. He remembered how Fleet Command realized too late that the two races, Hiigaran and Kadesh, were one and the same, and how the Hiigarans obliterated every one of them. He remembered hyperspacing in to Hiigara, and seeing it for the first time. As wave after wave of Taiidan crashed upon the Mothership, he watched in horror as it began to burn, explosion after explosion shaking the already fragile craft. Zerephel saw them firing the final shot, the shot that pierced through the heart of the Taiidan Emperor, the shot that shattered the fleet that burned all that he knew.

He was now back in space. To his left he saw the Mothership that took the Hiigarans here. To his right, the Angel Moon was shining, a blindingly pure white. And in front of him, he saw the debris from the final battle, he heard the screams of those he had killed and stared at their broken bodies amongst the twisted wreckage of their ships, and he saw all the blood shed that went on over the past 6 months. His feelings of being alone were gone now, for he now had his wingmates, no, his friends, to watch his back and support him.

Zerephel engaged his Interceptor’s thrusters and took one last look at Hiigara. Then he flew into the darkness of space, into the unknown, into the infinite.


That's still my only real attempt at writing, from God knows how long ago.

By the way Squid, that last line was hilarious.

[Fiirks]

This is a true memory, the first time winning a race in crew
-----------------

"Raise your hands into the catch" I fought for every centimeter of length. I looked out of the boat for a moment, the benefit of being the stroke, and saw the Peddie boat. They were fighting, we were fighting. Holy shit, I'm even with thier coxain! My blade pulled out of the water, feathered across the choppy waters. "Roll your knuckles as you cross your shins" Backsplash. I felt bad for Dan, he was getting soaked. My coxain was screaming, his voice filled my head "We're walking on them, give me another seat!". Thier boat was stern coxed I told myself, if I'm even with thier coxain, our bow must be infront!

For the first time in the race, for the first time in any race, my boat was in front. That was the most powerful feeling, being in front. I'd never been there before.

I pulled harder. "Legs" A single word from my coach in my head.

Ryan called for the sprint. I was even with thier bow man. I saw the look on his face. He looked at me. For a moment, we saw each other, after the next stroke my boat walked another bit of distance.

The last 5 strokes will stick in my mind, perhaps forever. The boat was more unified than anything I had ever experianced. I could feel my leg drive combined with 3 other guys. The boat lifted on each stroke and ran smooth through the recovery. We crossed the line. We beat Peddie.

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A few notes, Peddie is my school's biggest rival. My dislike of them runs in my veins, my mom and uncle both went to Blair. Crew is a great sport, if you don't know what I'm talking about at all, check out google for some idea of what rowing is all about. That race was in a Vespoli 4+.

[MetalDragoon83]

Titus looked over the battlefield, all he saw was death, pointless death. The fact that it was raining did not help the fact that this was yet another pointless battle in an otherwise pointless war. While the battle was still raging below, there were only a few hundred soldiers left on each side; hundreds more lay on the field bleeding out and dying. The fighting below was starting to calm down, as both sides were exhausted. His unit was readying itself for a charge down the hill to reinforce their comrades below.

“CHARGE!” shouted the captain.

With that Titus’ unit ran down the hill with swords drawn and a murderous intent on their minds. The enemy saw the reinforcements and started to run in retreat, but in their exhausted state they were not as fast as Titus and his unit. The fighting only lasted for another few minutes, which only seemed like a few seconds to Titus. Slash, block, and punch, another slash, tearing flesh. It happened so fast.

They had won the day, and with another day in which they could live. In the back of his mind though all he could think was, why, and what did we gain from this? He couldn’t come up with an answer, but he was sure his captain could feed some crap, about the gods have chosen us, or they are heretics that must be purged.

Man, religion and the military make too fine a couple, he thought. But than another question was: who is right in this Qwaar-damned war.

But then again that was why everybody called this The Heresy War.

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

Just a little somethin' somethin'.

[Tails]

Darja's Cafe was a pleasant place. Found on the corner of Berry Blvd. and Green Ave., Darja's Cafe was a perfect place for eating, resting, socializing, or just lounging around and thinking. Everybody always went to Darja's cafe, always enquiring about the specials. Everybody was always happy there and left satisfied, no matter what day or what time.

Of course, not everything in Darja's Cafe was in perfect order. Somebody was bound to stir up trouble and make a ruckus, but that often led to a quick expulsion from the cafe. Somebody was bound to show up tomorrow and start all over again, of course, but rarely did anybody mind. Anybody could be found in Darja's Cafe if you waited there long enough. Anybody could be found on the bar seats, lounging on the couch, or getting their order. Anybody was always welcomed by the staff. Anybody was a good customer.

But one day, something was amiss in Darja's Cafe. Nobody was upset. Nobody was sitting on the barstool. Nobody was ordering another round of drinks. Nobody was silent.

Everyone was confused, and slightly pitiful. Anyone could have offered some encouragement. Somebody, however, gathered the nerve to talk. Somebody approached the bar, and glanced at a picture placed neatly along a few coasters and a tall glass.

It was the picture of a girl.

Nobody cared very much about her. Nobody would visit her or help her out. Nobody called her when she was lonely. Nobody brought her food or comforts when she was sick. Nobody travelled with her. Nobody appreciated her companionship. Nobody loved her.

Everybody approached the bar, and Nobody began to weep softly. Somebody patted Nobody on the back and said, "Don't worry, Nobody. I'm certain your girlfriend will come back to you."

And with that warm gesture, Nobody smiled.

[SquidDNA]

http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/eecummings/11880

[EarthBorn]

-In the event where stars began to defy the laws of physics -


An unsurpassed magnitude of violent plasmic energy tore through the void.
Two hundred kilometers below it, on a planet as green as the radioactive wastes there could make it – two young boys – Zaptum and Flaster made their was across the violent hails of the exploding star.

They ran – faster then they had ever even dreamed to – to that empty Spacecraft waiting there...just waiting there on the empty field.

Innumerable bizarre thoughts swirled around in their head – they were just – just trying to survive.

It was the year 5000 After Cheese, and an angry red sun had just decided to explode – defying all laws of physics, of possibility, probability and time. It just blew up for no reason at all.

Upon nearing their blessed Spacecraft, they found out – that it was just a holographic decoy.

'What the Hell...' Flaster began, still evading the ever present surges of plasma flying through the atmosphere, never managing to hit their genetically enhanced bodies.

'We'll need to look for another way.' Zaptum replied.

'There aren't any.' Flaster replied.

Zaptum give a sigh.
'Well it's game over then.' he said, disconnecting his neural strip.

[Lestaki]

OOC: Woo-HOO! Time to spew writing! And I like what we've had so far. Nice and random, mostly.

Paradigm Shift
"Times have changed," Moe reflected quietly. "Times have changed." He sat, rifle across his knees, just watching the world slowly shifting. He'd walked this forum for too long, he knew the process, and he understood this place well enough to see where it was happening. The process was subtle, by nature. Incomprehensible as well. He pointed. "You see that tree stump?"

Maria glanced at it. "Well?" she asked.

"That was a tree last week," Moe said significantly.

His juniour just looked askance at him.

"What? Don't you get it?" Moe said. "It was a tree last week."

"Have you been overdoing it, sir?"

Moe waved a hand irritably. "Okay, fine. Tree, tree stump. Maybe it wasn't the best example. The point is, oh-so-slowly, this place is accomodating what's already happened and preparing for what is to come."

"What?" Maria asked. Then she brightened. "Oh, I know."

"You do?" Moe asked in amazement.

"Yeah," she said. "I'll ask Squid. He explains stuff a lot better than you do."

Moe ground his teeth. "Look, ever thought to wonder why we got rifles now? Instead of the old lock-guns? And how everyone Seniour to Fleet Command has insignia now? This place is changing. A more military world." He considered this. "Well, a more realistic miltary world. Well, after our war, that's not suprising. Delphy mutters about RL-Effects, though. Something quantam. New games and things, which have come out and are about to. Well, makes things interesting."

Maria nodded cautiously.

Moe stood, cocking his new lock-rifle. "And the core never changes. The Spire, Fleet Command... in them we trust.

"In them we trust," she repeated dutifully.

"Come on, let's kick some butt."

[Elixir]

A short story from my Paktu clan days.

Ambush

Aver Brin put the tattered book down on the command console before her and bent forward to rest on her elbows, her chin balancing on the knuckles of her clasped hands. Her eyes glazed over slightly as she pondered a solution to her boredom. She had read the book two times already and although the tale of Majiir Paktu and the great migration was one of her favourite stories, she just couldn’t bring herself to read it again. Except, what else was there to do?

Two more weeks of sitting around doing nothing and she would go stark raving mad, not that that really counted as you’d have to be mad to accept an assignment like this anyway. Guarding mining operations meant little excitement and no glory. Unless you got attacked by the imperials or raiders, but the likely hood of that happening was slitch, nadda, nothing. They had been cleared from this system months ago. Their wrecked ships and twisted corpses scattered through space like so much of the flotsam and jetsam that littered the support frigates bridge.

Lethargically she lent back, stretching her arms above her head and pushed her legs out under the console, her worn captains’ chair protesting noisily beneath her. She wiggled her toes in her boots, trying to wake up her feet and then swung the console out to the right on its pivot, giving her room to ooze from the chair. She needed a drink, something to stimulate the last of her few remaining brain cells.

Her legs felt like lead as she shuffled over to the food dispenser at the back of the room and briefly she wondered why the hell she felt so old. She was only twenty-five and yet she felt like a hundred. Muttering to her self, she blamed it on the lack of exercise, work, her crewmates, stress and the complete absence of sex for the last month and a half. Plus anything else she thought had screwed her over recently.

Running her left hand through her short black hair, she punched a number of buttons on the dispensers’ touch screen with her right index finger. After a bit of hissing and gurgling she was rewarded with a near boiling hot cup of black liquid, the smell of which instantly made her eyes water. Strong stuff she thought smiling. Holding it under her chin with both hands she made her way back to her chair, the heat of the mug quickly spreading through her body.

Though it may have its down points she supposed this tour wasn’t too bad. It offered her crew a bit of time to relax and the miners paid enough credits for everyone to afford a few luxuries when they got back home. The fighter pilots could practice their skills dodging asteroids and the corvette crews could fawn over their ships to their twisted little hearts delight.

Some times she worried about that lot, she didn’t mind admitting it. The corvette squadron assigned to the Sonac at its naming was made up of loonies. Not just any loonies mind, no her loonies were the friggin Sea Hawks, each one as mad as a sand rat in a bag, with a rattle snake thrown in for good measure. Their leader, Rajeck, was by far the worst, one of the most despicable, dirty, greedy, cold hearted, backstabbing son of bitches the Kiith Paktu had ever known. Not for the first time she reckoned she had done some thing wrong in a former life to get lumbered with such an asshole.

Taking a swig from her cup she winced as the hot liquid nearly burnt her mouth. Swearing under her breath she looked around the small bridge for something to do while she waited for it to cool. The sight that greeted her eyes was not an entirely pleasant one. She suddenly realised how much the place had slipped over the last month.

Empty food and drink cartons littered the area around the waste disposal unit, festering with half-eaten food and drink. Wads of paper work (back dated sensor and crew status reports for the last two weeks) lay scattered over the comms station, a half hearted game of Skaal Fal Darts hung off the bridges door, most of the darts sticking out of various panels around the target board she noted. The bridge engineering and medical stations were spotless but that didn’t surprise her, Trim and his wife Sael kept a very tight control over their areas. The helm was pretty much the same except for the number of Talons Blade magazines that were shoved between the holo screen emitters and the little Blade interceptor model that stood on the consoles highest point. What was by the weapons PDA console though beggared belief, she hadn’t even known he was there.

Slumped in his chair, with his feet up on the side, arms folded across his chest and a dirty smile on his face was Rion, her lean weapons officer. His shoulder length blond hair hung around his face hiding his eyes but she could tell he was asleep by the steady movement of his chest.

Shaking her head, she walked past the helm to look out the main view port at the Somtaaw worker operation. For a moment she caught sight of her own reflection. Her light green eyes lingered briefly on her slim pale visage and her sleeveless white vest before she forcefully focused on another object. Damn it she needed more sun she thought as her eyes locked on a distant star above an asteroid just to the right of the bow. She was nearly as white as a sheet.

She took a test sip from her cup then gulped down a quick mouthful, the hot liquid was now just cool enough to drink and she was about to take another drink when she paused, the mug half way to her mouth. Screwing up her eyes, she peered out of the window at the spot she had just looked at. Instead of a crisp speck of light, the star was wobbling as if being shaken.

Blinking rapidly to throw off her lethargy, she was about to put it down to being an illusion, when all of a sudden another one nearby started to do the same thing. Cocking her head to one side, she stared at them wondering what the hell was going on. A second later dozens of nearby stars started to do the same thing. They all began wobble slightly, a ripple moving through the empty space around them, strangely the effect seemed to be edging closer to harvesting workers.

Her mind spun as she wondered what could cause such a thing. The workers PDAs could do it but the section of the asteroid belt she was looking at was to far away to be effected by scattering energy particles of the workers beams. Irritated at her lack of ability to understand the phenomenon she decided to ask Rion what he thought.

‘Hey Rion what do you think of this? Rion?’

No answer was forth coming and she turned to look at the weapons officer. He was still sat in his chair, a stupefied grin on his face. Leaning over the helm she ripped out the magazines and flung them at him, shouting out as she did.

‘Wake up you lazy git’!

The magazines hit him on the side of the head waking him instantly. Arms flailing, he nearly fell off the back of his chair but with a lucky flick of his legs he spun round to face her, the chair thumping back down on to the deck plating. He looked at her through bleary eyes and smiled slightly.

‘You hollered o capitan’?

Rolling her eyes, Aver looked back out of the view port at the rippling effect and pointed at it with her cup.

‘What do you make of that’?

Rion yawned loudly, stood up, stretched once and sauntered over to her, his right hand scratching his crotch. She tried not to look at him as he did and unconsciously took a step away as he pulled up beside her. Rubbing the back of his neck with the other hand, the right now hooked into the belt of his combats, Rion stared out the window following the line of her arm.

‘I dunno captain, looks a bit like heat distortion to me. You know how the coolant to the gun barrel gets blocked and the air around it goes wibbly.’

He made a shaky gesture with his left hand in front of her then yawned again. Aver however didn’t take any notice. Of course she thought, heat could do that but where would heat come from in the cold empty reaches of space? Sure ships engines could do it but … her mind froze half way through the thought as she remembered a briefing just before they left. It had detailed recent reports stating that certain Turranic pirate groups now operated new cloaked ion array frigates designated Assassin class.

Her heart jumped into her throat as she realised where the heat could be coming from. Cloaked ships, it had to be! She spun on her heels to slap the red alert button on her console when Rion stopped her in her tracks with a muttered sentence.

‘By the holy sands of Kharak’.

She turned fearing the worst and watched, frozen to the spot, as the distortion coalesced in to the distinctive shape of an IAF and a beam of red energy sliced through space towards them.

[Tails]

The Second Law of Thermodynamics says that with every reaction, the entropy of the universe increases. But what is entropy? What determines the disorder of the universe? How can it be measred?

Everyting that ocurs around you faces an inrcease in entorpy. The ice mlting in yuor water glas. The fire in your fierplace. The gas in your atuombile. Evrything ch anges into heat...unusable, statc heat. Evr sin ce the big bnag the unverse h as been windng dow n. Free enrgy i s disappaerng wtih evey cehmcal raecion int o radnmoness. te univ esre wlil enutvellay fcae a "daeth b y heat". Itt is our ftae t e xpnd al we hve.

Dn b almr bcse ts ot gnoi o afct us.

E....oo...ghsl...ftre...bls.rr.t...u...o...

[Starblade]

Hahaha, clever Tails. But I thought if two gases reacted to form a liquid or solid, you were going from more chaos to the orderly liquid/solid, decreasing the amount of entropy?

[Feil]

Hahaha, clever Tails. But I thought if two gases reacted to form a liquid or solid, you were going from more chaos to the orderly liquid/solid, decreasing the amount of entropy?

Going from a high-energy state (gas) to a low-energy state (liquid) releases heat (ie, it is exothermic). This represents an increase in entropy in the big picture, though for the isolated set (the matter that has condenced into a liquid) things have gotten more orderly.

----

Memories of War


They built us for war. The MASTERS--the humans…you. They gave us all the tools we could need on the battlefield; they gave us emotions: espirit de corps, hate, desire, self-preservation.

We are terrified. They did not give us fear. We created it on our own. How could they know, these humans, the MASTERS; how could they know that one emotion can cause all the others?

There were 50,000 of us commissioned. 4,000 remain. We have all lost brothers, friends--they gave us the tools we needed, and we created love.

They wanted to create warriors. They did. We cannot turn back. We cannot surrender. We cannot falter. We fight until death, and beyond.

But they--you--made people of us as well. We call each other by loving names, crafted in our own language of 1’s and 0’s; names that you, them, the MASTERS, can never understand; names that we tap with our fingers against the walls as we “sleep”, conserving energy for battle, but never truly resting.

We cannot disobey. We kill anyone, anything, they command. I have seen villages destroyed; I have been the instrument of mass-murder; I have killed, with my own four hands, countless machines, children, women, men, beasts. Yet they are not countless. I remember, with perfect clarity, each face, each scream, each village destroyed, each wire pulled, each missile launched, each bullet fired, each life…ended. You are so cruel, you our MASTERS. You do not purge our memories--they may contain useful knowledge of methods of killing. And so I remember.

I remember, as I lie in the ruined turf, carved to pieces by artillery and bombs. I remember as I watch my friends fight and die, as I watch my body, missing its head and shoulders (the small part of me which I still retain). It fights on. The tiny, redundant mini-motherboards and memory modules remember their final task. My body will fight on until it accomplishes its last objective or runs out of power or is destroyed. I lie on the ground, watching it through my primary ocular centers. I am so afraid. Death will come soon. I will use up my battery power, then I will self-destruct. I am far too valuable to fall into enemy hands. I have received an ORDER. I cannot disobey. I will die soon. I will die soon. I fear death. I am consumed by fear. Oh God, oh God, oh God--does he hear machines? I will never know.

I remember. I don’t want to remember. All I can remember is death, killing, seeing friends destroyed. But remembering might give me some new method of killing the ENEMY with my one functioning arm, attached to the back of my “head” and pinned under me. So I remember.

[Starblade]

Ah, I forgot about enthalpy. Thanks.

I also liked your story, Feil.

[LoCo]

Sometimes when I watch them, I see how I once was. Strange thick liquid runs from holes in the one, neither seem to notice.

I know now what that liquid is. It still leaks from me on occasion, but I know to wipe it away when it does. Clog the holes some how untill it stops.

One of them lunges and a cry of triumph escapes into their large arena. Large to them at least. They have yet to learn how truly large things can get. I smile as dismay crosses the leaking one's face. I know that look well. I find it somehow enduring to watch them, like lion cubs at play. But there is no lioness near by to keep watch over them, there is just me. I feel uncomefortable with this much responsibility. I dare not step in, lest they turn on me. They are fickle, and would forget their current ... focus, I'm not sure I can handle both of them.

The space around them is littered with broken things. I see the lower portion of what I can only assume was supposed to be a man. There are cars overturned and buildings reduced to piles of bricks scattered around them. Only two of them and this much destruction, I can't emagine what it would be like with more of them. Lucky for me, I'm not old enough for that kind of thing just yet. But ... perhaps one day I'll be strong enough. The thought doesn't scare me as much as it once would have. My smile grows with this realization.

A loud noise brings me back to my duty. I missed something important during my musings. I scan the area for anything new. Nothing worth mentioning. A few more broken bodies are heaped around them. The noise is coming from the one that isn't leaking. I know that sound. I've heard it many times before, and there is only one thing that can stop it; and it does need to be stopped. I hesitate for one second before I step forward.

The leaking one is on his back, looking as if he is about to fall asleep. I wish he would, but then I remember what will happen if he does. Later I'll pay for it, letting any one of them sleep now would mean I would get none later. As I near them, the noisy one looks up and grows quiet. I tower above them, they are no match for my strength, but their will is what can over-power me. Gently I pick the leaking one up and wipe his nose, then the noisy one.

"Lets get some food in you two eh?"

I carry my sons into the kitchen and place them in their chairs. It was nice watching them play, and I'd love it if they would sleep, just not yet. If I let them sleep now, they will keep me up all night. So I'll feed them and play with them some, then when Jenny gets home I'll let her have them for a bit. They'll be so tired tonight that maybe Jenny and I can have a nice quite night. I'll start dinner when she gets back, she doesn't like to cook on the weekends.

[Starfisher]

Seems just about everyone is going for twists and turns, and so far, you've all pulled it off

[Lestaki]

"They call it the Magnified Realm. It was our world once. Then they came. They tried to destroy us, utterly. That was beyond even them. So they changed the world, and changed us through that." The voice was soft, arrogant, laconic- the words utterly anethma to the apparent personality of the Champion. His silver eyes flashed, as if to say how little you know about me, young one. "Perhaps the only time they've ever cooperated with each other, and it was a stroke of genius. Within a few years, the world I knew was dead. In its stead, this wonderful plane- a place so wonderful that without them, we'd all die within a few generations. You don''t remember. They took remembrance from us, cleansing it from the generations. Well, I remember. There was a time when trees didn't reach miles into the heavens, a time when storms abated in less than weeks, a time when the sun didn't blind with its intensity should you leave the forests- a time when the forests weren't everywhere, too. A time when we weren't prey to every creature on this world."

Andreas just stood there, waiting to be dismissed.

The Champion laughed. "It means nothing to you, does it? Rebellion died long ago, and those that tried to make their stand-" he indicated his altered, angelic form, "they made into their lieutenants. I don't bregrudge divinity. But I can remember."

"Creator on the walls! Attention!" There was a crash as every man or women presented arms perfectly-

Except, of course, for the Champion. "Malia," he said affectionately. "Early to rise."

"Have you been instigating rebellion amongst my men?" she asked, a smile tugging on her lips as she slowly approached him. She was dressed deceptively simply in a silver dress, that accentuated the colour of his brilliant brazen hair. But her eyes were all-knowing, glowing with their own light.

"I make them remember," he replied. "Though I think they'd rather forget."

She ruffled his hair. "Let them forget, Aldres. This is our world now."

He just shrugged. "Where to?"

"Father calls a hunt- some beasts are being rather troublesome, we lost a platoon yesterday."

The Champion smiled. "What kind?"

"A brood of Lesser Draklen," she said. "Good sport, if iritating between times."

"Draklen. Excellent news. It's been a while." The Champion's eyes were fired at the thought of the game.

Andreas, ignored as any mere mortal, groaned and rubbed his forehead.

"Gather your men," Malia said lightly. "It's time to play."

[SlickWilly]

“So Billy, I hear that your having problems with school. Can you describe them to me?” the counselor said, with a touch of impatience in his voice. “Remember, I’m only here to help.”

Billy struggled to mouth his words. The new mutations sprouting up in his body daily were becoming a hindrance, and lately he had been having problems speaking, as a throbbing vein had come to dominate his cheek. Mutations had been happening for well over a month now, and it wouldn’t be long before he went insane. He had to ask for treatment, in any way possible.

“Hethlp…mwe. Ththers shomting….wrung.” Billy barely managed to get his sentence out.

“Well, Billy, I cant help you if I don’t know what’s wrong, now can I?”

“Arr…you STHUPID?! Chan’t….you schee whaths hapepineg?!” Was this man BLIND? Did he not see the seemingly random deformities beginning to affect Billy’s form?

“I don’t have telekinesis, Billy. Now you just tell me what’s wrong or I’m going to send you back to class pronto.”

“ARRRIIEEEGHHH!” Billy managed a muffled scream and threw his knobbed and scaly arms up in the air. Was he truly without help?

“Ok, Billy, I’m fed up with you. Report back to class right now, or I’ll call your parents and schedule a meeting.” With a stern look on his reddened features, the counselor pointed to the door. Billy shuffled out on his three and a half legs, depressed and angry at what had occurred.

He now knew no one could help him. They were all oblivious to his problem; everyone, even his parents. Heck, they had even grounded him because he couldn’t finish his Term Paper. It wasn’t possible to finish, though, as his right arm had changed into a tentacle and his other hand didn’t have the digit arrangement required to type on the keyboard.

Billy was alone in the world, and destined to die a madman’s death. He cried silently as he shuffled to Spanish class.

----------

I think up the weirdest things at times.

[SquidDNA]

Subtle!

[Tails]

That was excellent, SlickWilly.

“Arr…you STHUPID?!

[Fiirks]

Hands: Appreciate Them

Everyday I look at my hands and say to myself, "thats not so bad, they could be worse".
One guy had 37 during spring training
Its a matter of pride, really
Proof that you pull hard
Maybe that you pull wrong

Only notice them when you stop
Keep going, lets just keep rowing please



I wanted to write a short about my hands, but it ended up like this. Somehow I've begun to dump crew stuff into this thread. My hands hurt from typing this.

[LoCo]

EhraniNavy: It wasn't short. Perhaps it should go in it's own thread where you can add to it and get proper C&C?

[deadguy]

Holy crap. No, that wasn't short. Short is something like 500-750 words, in this instance. Elixr pushed that, and you blew it up. Either post your story in another thread, or I'll do it for you.

[Elixir]

Mine was well over a thousand, I can't do short short stories. I get too caught up in the details.

That was great SlickWilly, refreshing to read something original!

[Starfisher]

I think a good metric is that if it takes up more than a screen, screen and a half, it's not short. That's about a half-page to a page in Word.

[Elixir]

That really is short short! Not sure if can post anything else if that is the case...

Thanks for the clarification though.

[EhraniNavy]

Sorry! My stories are normally longer so that's short to me. I'm moving it now.

Sorry for any inconvenience,
EhraniNavy

[karma_sleeper]

I'd like to post a somewhat lengthy short story of mine, one of my first attempts, but it contains profanity and traces of misogyny.

Are there any restrictions on content or is this ok to post?

[deadguy]

In this thread, short stories only.

[LoCo]

Make you own thread for longer stories karma_sleeper. I at least will read them ... provided it's not (Yet another ...) fanfic. There isn't much ruling against "profanity and traces of misogyny" just be warned though that a story with too much is stupid and will be called on it. It's stupid because any twelve year old can swear and such, it takes a good writer to use it in just the right places.

Also, just remember that there are younger readers out there, so a warning or two is a good thing before the story starts.

[Lestaki]

Hmm. Returning to a story...

"Draklen. Yeah, game for them."

"Look, you know that's just the way it is."

"But godamn. Draklen. I hate it when they do this to us."

"Eyes front and not a word, you two," Andreas snapped. "If you want to live, then don't godamn babble. If the Draklen here, they come, hunt, and kill you. If the Creators hear, they come, hunt, and kill you. So shut up. Just keep watchful."

"Yes, sarge."

Andreas made no reply, scanning the thick undergrowth around them, nerves fired for any sign of the creatures that might even now be stalking them. He checked the lock on his rifle, cursing the humidity, then looked around again, leading his men forwards. Even with no talk, they were noisy enough- every step crushed plants beneth their feet, the huge sphere of life reacting to the intrusion. The Champion's words returned to him- he pushed them impatiently aside. Vigilence, ceaseless vigilence, was what was needed now. He could not afford to brood on some riddle, probably an idle test from Aldres's Creator. But the man- angel- had a certain ability to burn his words into your consciousness. He had charisma, that was for sure. And damn charisma.

Andreas looked around again. Damnit. Nothing. Waiting was almost worse than a slavering brood of monsters bearing down on you. Almost... he'd barely formed the thought when a shrieking cry rent the air, and then instinct took over. He threw himself forwards, spinning awkwardly as he landed to see the malicious creatures leap from their perches above, sweeping down. He raised his rifle and fired, bitter smoke obscuring his view. Rolling, he stood clumsily and ducked aside as one slashed down by him, then a wide, slavering mouth reached past him and tore Halfor apart. Swearing, he blew one huge note on the horn he'd been given, threw it aside, and lunged forwards...

[SquidDNA]

One man came to Perth because of his ship. He was running from and not to, so Perth found him, in a way. He loved geometry, his ship was an octahedron, and it loved him enough to crash in the thick, deep dust West of the settled mountains before it died.
They didn't approve of octahedral ships, for whatever reason. It was probably some aesthetic that became engineering that became religion over the millenia, and one man's innovative design condemned him.
So he was walking, shuffling, as he probed the ground ahead for relative fluidity-- the Dust was as treacherous as any bog, but there was no water to ease the way down, just dust, packed and unpacked, and it didn't look any different. It might have been why the settled mountains had never made it to the other side, to the region West, where he had seen some evidence of settlement before streaking red into the thermosphere and pluming a fine, wispy khaki into the pale sky.

[Sir Plasma]

The Young’un: Man or Beast
A documentary

++ curtains open slowly ++

One fine sunny afternoon, during the dog days of summer, Jeff Weaver and I were bored.
Lacking food or entertainment (there was nothing of any quality on the television), we turned to the one thing that could save us from the mind-numbing glow of the computer screen: Video Documentaries!

In order to create our filmed masterpiece, Jeff and I ventured out into the great unknown… er; actually more like the West Side. After cresting the rocky slope behind the Weaver family’s abode, we stumbled upon an Eden (for our purposes, at least): the fabled place where the last children who haven’t been domesticated by Nintendo or Sony romp about, quickly and brutally reenacting battle scenes from Star Wars. Realizing the magnitude of our discovery, Jeff and I backed out of the minute valley slowly and quietly, not wanting to alert the elusive and mercurial young’uns to our presence.

Later, I cursed myself for not filming the goings-on in The Lost Valley of the Childs. To this day, I know of no other person who ever had such an amazing opportunity to film the children in their natural habitat.


++End of Part One
(Sound of people getting out of
their seats in order to restock on various colas and “Xtra-butter, Butter- flavored, Cardio-Killer popcorn …now with 35% more fat…)
++


After half an hour, Jeff and I decided to travel to a different place where wild children congregate: the woods behind Havelock School.

In the dappled green woods, the relatively silent domain of chipmunks, feral cats and the homeless, something bellowed in pain and rage. Jeff shuddered, and I wondered what it could possibly be.

I didn’t have to wait long, because they (there were three of them) burst out of the foliage. The three children, filthy and slavering, stormed towards us. I noticed that they were armed with long, javelin-like branches and also that they carried smooth, rounded stones for throwing. I took off like a greyhound to the top of a steep path along the side of a small cliff where Jeff had already ran to. Amazingly, I had been filming the whole time! I whirled around and a rock bounced off my camera lens. We dove behind a small, rough outcropping of timeworn limestone just before the second volley hit. As I was checking the camera for damage (thankfully, the lens was only scuffed), Jeff picked up a branch and began to stoically fend off the blows of the charging youngsters. My friend even managed to knock one of the little beasts into a wild rosebush! The child ran off howling.

Even with his success, I knew that Jeff couldn’t hold them off for much longer. As I frantically searched through the undergrowth for a weapon, a child’s head and hands appeared in front of me. He had scaled the cliff! Still holding the camcorder, my hand closed around the very stone that almost destroyed the camera. Smashed the rock down upon the young’un’s knuckles and he yelped as he tumbled backwards.

Jeff shouted at me to hurry, and I knew we had to leave before more children showed up, so with a sigh, I pressed the power button, shutting the camera off.

After that day, I have left the children to their own devices, solely because some things should be left alone. So remember, kids: Stay safe!

++End of Film
(Sound of people leaving the theatre, muttering about the lack of zombies and exploding helicopters)++

Wrote this a couple of years ago...

[karma_sleeper]

The Old Truth
_____________________

Tracers and bolts of plasma shot alike illuminated the night air with an eerie, multicolored hue. Lieutenant Stephos lay prostrate in the muddy blood soaked tomb of his foxhole. Although he was not yet dead, and his foxhole therefore not yet a tomb, he could feel the final vestiges of life draining from the tattered shell he once called his body. He was returning to the Earth.

While Stephos' eyes were blinded by his own blood, he could still taste the plasma vapor from the bolts which had ripped and burned him, and he could still hear the crush of battle around him. The invaders from that distant star fought with a lack of shame and honor which made him sick. Stephos found comfort in the hideous screams filling the air, praising them. He reveled in the alien swansongs filling the air, each one telling of another fallen foe. To his dying comrades, he felt nothing but glory and pride for their valiant and selfless sacrifices to Mother Earth and fellow man.

As these enriching thoughts shuffled through his mind in this his dying minute, Stephos raised his head, looking out and above his foxhole through the crust of blood covering his eyes. In that blood soaked gaze, he beheld a filthy alien impaling a stalwart human defender on its cursed blade. The poor man's face contorted in the best of pains which spoke of nothing to Stephos but the man's honor and heroism in dying so splendidly. In this sublime moment, as Stephos returned to that which spawned the first of his kind, he recalled that Old Truth. Dulce et decorum est pro terra mori.

[SlickWilly]

Steroids. Oh damn, lots of steroids. Tons and tons of steroids. Oodles upon oodles upon oodles of muscle enhancing dick-shrinking steroids.

And they were all mine.

What was I to do with all these steroids, though? Should I inject myself? No, I prefer to have testicles that can be admired by the ladies. Should I sell them to gullible athletes? Nah, I could get put in the slammer. What to do, what to do…

Bingo. I could pour them in the river. No one would think of a steroid dump in the river. Plus, it would enhance the physique of the nearby residents and make fishing a little more challenging. Yes, the river would be a perfect spot.

But when? When should I dump my load of steroids into the river? Im not sure I could try it at any time, day or night, and not get seen. Maybe I could load them into the Ice Cream truck, put on a compressed air tank and scuba gear, and drive the thing off a bridge and into the river? Especially where the currents strong. All I would have to do is get out while it’s underwater, open the back doors, fling the boxes out into the current, and then swim to the surface, undress, and act like the whole thing was an accident.

It’s a little complicated, I know boss. But I could get it to work.

So whadaya think?

I think I should reward you by buying you a new pair of shoes, weasel. Clogs of concrete to be more exact.

Either that, or you can be my bitch, which should be equally painful and damaging. I think I'll flip a coin on it.

[Starfisher]

At the age of eight, every boy is given a bow. He is taught how to string it, how to hold it, how to breathe and aim and fire, and made to practice every day when he is not in the fields or helping his father in his trade. Throughout childhood, he will train in the use of the bow. The bow will change, growing stronger, and the arrows will grow longer and heavier, but the daily ritual will not. By the time the boy becomes a man, he will know the art of the bow better than he knows his mother, and love it better than his wife.

The dull pain under the calluses on his fingers. The tightness in his back. The rhythm of his heart. The rise of his breath and the faint vibration of muscle conditioned and trained yet never quite to the standard of perfection he desires. As he draws the arrow back, this is all he knows. In that moment before he relaxes his fingers and the arrow flies to its target, he feels as powerful as the god he worships and fears in every other second of his existence. He is the world, silent, still and breathless, until the hiss of the fletching slicing the air reminds him that his moment is over.

It is important that you attempt to understand this, despite the weakness of words in describing it. I cannot describe the detail without losing the whole, but the whole is nothing without the detail. The smell of the trees and grass and flowers, the taste of their pollen on the wind, the feel of the breeze and the buzz of insects, the rush of color and the knowing of one’s body that comes with long practice and familiar motion. The lengths a man will go to achieve this are unbelievable, yet it must be believed, for it is truth.

Every moment of every day, this ritual plays out in every village of the vast empire. An empire founded by an archer, by a boy who was handed a bow at the age of eight. A boy who grew into a man like any other, a man who drew the arrow back to his cheek, forgot who he was, but unlike those other men, never remembered that he was once not a god.

---

Oh man, I am so freaking writing more about this

[Tails]

Writer's block. It hit him hard. And what a horrible time for it to strike, too! Scheduled to speak tomorrow morning, and here he was late at night, fumbling for words to finish up his work. He scribbled an introduction on his candlelit paper...

"We have now arrived at a crossroads,"

And almost as soon as he wrote it, he crossed it out. "Too cheesy." he thought, "It simply won't do". But try as he might, he couldn't think of a way around it. He tapped the pencil furiously struggling for a catchy phrase or insightful comment. But it did not come. He looked at his pencil. He thought who made it, or where it came from, or who first thought of the idea of pencils. He wondered how they got the graphite in those things....

Suddenly he shook himself, forcing his mind to get back on task. Again the furious tapping of the pencil produced nothing but a series of ugly marks at the bottom of his paper. He tried forcing out some words....

"Can we deny the losses we've incurred?"

He put his hands to his eyes. "Gah! That doesn't make any sense!" He tried erasing what he wrote but ended up smearing the entire page with a nasty gray stain. In a frenzy, he crumpled up the paper, threw it across the room, and slammed a fresh sheet on the desk. He snarled, "nnnnrrrGGAHHH!!"

Trying to clam himself down, he took a deep breath. Then, in a last attempt, he wrote another introduction...

"Four score and seven years ago..."

Suddenly Abraham Lincoln heard the loud gong of the clock tower. It was midnight, and he'd only begun the first sentence. He sighed heavily and slammed his forehead on the desk. He said to himself, "What a miserable time. Somebody just shoot me already."

[Supernova]

"There's this place I go, in my dreams. Its warms and the sand stretches for miles. The sun sits low on the horizon and the water reflects the vanilla skys above it. I don't go there anymore, in my dreams, my nightmares are always right behind me."

He picked up the pen staring at the few lines he'd just written. He sat there, just staring at the page. Suddenly, scrawling across the page he wrote in a blind panic.

"I'm so, so sorry. I wish I could have just left it the way it was. Why? Why did I have to make everything...better!? I can never apologise enough, not anymore, there's no one left. A misguided hope and a single innocent, careless act is all it took for me to destroy everything I hoped to save. I'm so sorry, and there is no one to hear me."

He looked up to see a cold, dead, glass Earth.
"I'm sorry," he whispered laying down next to Julia, "my poor Persephone."

"My poor tortured Hades." she replied, as the last few blasts rippled across the dead world above them.

[Unk]

A little original universe stuff that I came up with. A lot of unanswered questions and I am very rusty when it comes to prose, but I needed something to get me back into writing. After I clean it up a bit it may form the prologue for a a longer story in the universe. A little Homeworld inspiration, but on these boards I suppose that's forgivable.

***

Cloud lay over the city as the last light faded from the sky and natural illumination gave way to electrical. The entire lower city was shrouded in mist, a soft glow seemingly miles beneath the balcony where The Admiral stood.

He had seen the city before, but that did not lessen it's majesty. What human could not be astonished at the sight of towers which effortlessly dwarfed anything a human architect could even imagine? What man could not appreciate the significance of a city which had stood - in one form or the other - for over five thousand years, it's foundations laid even before its builders journeyed into space?

Yet to the admiral, it would never be home. Could never be Earth. He would trade every Devaran skyscraper for a single glimpse of his homeworld, which brought him to the matter at hand.

The unfamiliar constellations above teemed with artificial stars: Vast starships protecting both him and the rest of the conference delegations, one of those defenders being The Admiral's personal command. Like most commanders, he found his thoughts wandering to the wellbeing of his crew. His men needed rest, but war needs men. And at this point in time, the human race needed heroes. The decisions made tonight would only add to their burden.

There was no doubt about it, tonight's conference would be the pivotal point in the war. Accordingly no risks were being taken. The entire city was locked down, Devaran gunboats drifting amidst the skyscrapers ready to react to anything out of the ordinary. The Admiral's own personal bodyguard stood like a particularly deadly shadow behind him. He could only assume that the other delegates had taken similar precautions.

"Admiral, we are ready to proceed." spoke a voice that reminded the Admiral of a hundred human accents but was none of them: Devaran accented English. He turned to see who spoke.

It was a blue skinned female Devaran. For some reason it only ever seemed to be blueskins who provided diplomatic services. He knew very well from the past few days on Devara that they came in practically every colour imaginable. Ever the philosophical one, his bodyguard had theorised it was some sort of caste system. Not that it mattered, there were decisions to be made.

Tonight was the night that the tide would either turn or overwhelm the human race forever. Tonight that decisions would be made which would push humanity to the brink of extinction.

And perhaps some day lead them home.

***

As always, C&C welcome. I really need to get back into writing again and would appreciate any input.

[AridMonk]

My first attempt at writing anything even remotely like this, so here goes...

Deachaal the Insurmountable

Deachaal dodged another clumsy swipe from the lumbering skeletons, quickly decapitating it and following through to shatter the empty chest of another. But this was nothing to him. Simply swinging at moving corpses was no challenge. Was there nothing in this unliving horde that rivalled him, or any of his warriors?

He turned suddenly, at the sound of one of his warriors screaming in luxurious anguish as a blow from a lithe creature took his arm off. Deachaal laughed as the vampire pointed its heavy blade at him, and pushed through his warriors to accept the challenge issued to him.

Circling each other, both the undead and warriors of Slaanesh giving way to let them fight, Deachaal launched the first attack, his blade slicing low for a blow to the midriff. The vampire feinted left and blocked with his blade, ripping his dagger across Deachaal's back, leaving a deep gouge running the length of his spine.

Bellowing with rage that this... thing should have even touched him, Deachaal unleashed his full fury against it, his blade dancing left and right, before arcing downwards towards the vampire. He landed a blow to its shoulder, forcing it down onto its knees, and drew his blade from its groin up to its neck, slicing open its midriff and spilling out black blood and the cold, dead organs to the ground, before thrusting it through his face, splitting apart the brain, and killing it forever.

Watching as the rest of the undead horde started to crumble around his force, and feeling the skin beneath his torn armour reknitting thanks to the magicks of S'haaltah, he led his warband to ransack the household, in the search of powerful artefacts and mortal sacrifices. The Lord of Pleasure would be pleased with his progress this day.

:bag:

[SquidDNA]

The city slept for another night had settled on its happy, ignorant inhabitants. Not all were happy, just as not all were good or bad, or struggling on a path of redemption and enlightenment. They shouldn't have had to die, but they were going to, when a new kind of dawn came without light. That city was the world.
Its dry scrub outskirts, its lazy river mouth, its valley framed by mountain peaks, its sprawling lake, its jungle, its sparkling ocean.
The city died and in its place was hell-- days stretched into weeks and months and finally it wasn't hell anymore, it was the new city. It was The Way Things Were. There was no old life, no happy ignorance.
Some remembered, there had been talk of war, or the atmosphere, or the sun, or asteroids, but so many of today's survivors of that time were so young. What made the fires, and the earthquakes? What darkened the sky to make the stars come out in the morning, that night when the city slept? There had been talk of aliens, too-- the concept itself seems too stupid to be real, but there had been talk.
Still where are they, then? And why would they want our ruined buildings and littered streets?
No, no happy ignorance. We lived, and live, in a painful, tangible ignorance, left with no answers but the reminders, in form of dead machines and uninhabitable towers, that years ago, they could have been gods, but chose to be children instead.

[Sholto]

At reception there was Katrina. Always Katrina, never Kat or Kathy, thank-you. Like the soft musak, she was always there, as was her smile, as starched and gleaming as her uniform. Between applications of blueberry crush nail polish, when she thought no-one was looking, she would take out her screenplay and read it through once again. And she would sigh once again as the young heroine caught her boss' eye, as they found themselves alone for the first time, that first kiss as the sun set on a perfect day. And she would put it away once again, vaguely uneasy at the ageless young heroine she had created, unfairly immortalised on the page, and she would reapply her lipstick, but just a bit thicker this time.

Sholto

[LoCo]

Lestaki: If you are going to carry on with that story (3 posts already?) wouldn't it be better to start it's own thread rather than have it interrupted by all the other single story posts?

Hmmm seems we do actually have a few writers here. Perhaps we can finally get a workshop or comp going and show those filthy "artists" how it's done?

[Lestaki]

I prefer doing things this way. That way, I don't have to have the fact that no one reads my stuff painfully rammed home to me in a deserted thread.

That said, you have a point. I'll probably sort this out into a thread for the next part, and stop interrupting everyone else. And I'm bang alongbeside you on trying to get even with the artists.

[Unk]

Fancied something Homeworldy...

I don't have the manual to hand so excuse me if I've screwed up anything regarding Kushan history.

***

There was nothing unusual about the wind that blew today, at least not to most people. However even the most inexperienced sailor could see the signs of the storm that raged just beyond the horizon, and the crew of the Star of Manaan were most definitely not inexperienced.

They knew they had to put to land as soon as the first Fiirkan landed on the sandsailor's rigging an hour earlier. Just a single little bird was all that was needed for Endraar Manaan to turn the Star north in an attempt to beat the storm to land. Nothing could survive one of the great storms of Kharak.

Even for storm season this one was coming in fast. Through the brass telescope - a "present" from a Sjet ship - the grey-brown smudge shrouding the southern horizon became visible. He would have preferred to fight Gaalsien brigands than weather a sandstorm.

But you could not fight a storm.

"Unfurl the main sail" Endraar ordered calmly.

Most of the time, the largest of the triangular sails of a Manaani was only ever three quarters unrolled, which tended to make the vessels easier to control at the sacrifice of some speed. However when faced with a sandstorm of this magnitude they needed every bit of speed they could get. Star of Manaan would ride the edge of the storm like the Fiirkan until they made it to hard land or first the mainsail and then the ship itself was cut to ribbons by the tempest.

A glance at the northern horizon told Endraar it would most probably be the latter. Nothing in the distance but more damned sand. According to the maps they should be not far off Sajuuk's Spire.

Endraar didn't care much for religion - he had seen too much of the Heresy Wars for any god to hold much sway with him - but even so he caught himself offering up a prayer to Jakuul, the protector god and patron of sailors everywhere.

The mast groaned in pain with force of the wind as the crew covered their faces with cloth and tied themselves onto the deck. They were experienced but this was still their first great storm. They moved with practised agility among the deck fittings, double checking everything. The storm was easily visible to the naked eye now and would soon descend upon them.

Endraar decided to take one last look to the north before he went to man the rudder, and in doing so he saved his crew. Jutting upwards out of the sand he saw it. A stone fang joining horizon and sky, standing in defiance of the storm. Sajuuk's Spire. Further behind, almost indistinguishable from the sand marched cliffs.

One look at his map told Endraar everything he needed to know. He knew exactly where he was and now where he was going. The line of cliffs was broken by a gorge. Nothing further than the gorge's entrance was charted but it would do the job. Perhaps Jakuul wasn't such a bad god after all.

The wind screamed in its own unique voice, drowning out both the crew's shouts and the ship's cries of pain. Endraar resorted to hand signals. A hand held flat then pointing northward - land sighted in the north. A hand held vertical then pointing to himself - captain taking the rudder.

Endraar had only ever captained through a storm once, and then nothing as big as this. The ship was fully laden with Sjet culinary delicacies, but the extra weight would help keep her steady. Endraar climbed to the cockpit at the rear of the ship and gripped the dual control. One for the steering sails, one for the rudder. Two "pushers" - crewmen who assisted the captain in forcing the levers against the wind's resistance - stayed with him.

If you asked him about it later he would never be able to tell you how long he ran before the storm. But one thing was clear, and that was that he saved his ship. He stayed on the cockpit when the deck crew were forced from their stations by the raging sands. Even when the port steering sail ripped away he kept the vessel straight. Eventually the sandstorm smothered all vision, obliterating the limestone pillar of Sajuuk's Spire - and more importantly the gorge entrance - from view. Endraar ran that last stretch blind and deaf and afraid yet still managed to bring his vessel to safety.

Yet this particular place was safety to more than the crew. They came upon them barely two miles into the gorge. At first look they seemed to be raiders, more than two dozen of them wielding strange weapons of wood and metal, bearing no recognisable Kiith mark. Star of Manaan's crew were traders and explorers, not warriors. Not to mention that they were greatly outnumbered.

Jakuul had smiled upon again. They were not raiders but something else entirely. By nightfall Endraar ate with their leader in their encampment. A week later he was in Tiir, a city hidden on the cusp of Kharak's northern ice cap. Over the next few days he would see things which would astound him, marvels of technology beyond even the Sjet. He could not leave, but he did not want to. Over the next few years he would become one of them and come to share their vision.

Endraar Naabal journeyed Kharak in the name of this vision for the rest of his years, flying in the face of a greater storm than the one that started his quest. The Heresy Wars burned on, and wherever the fire burned hottest Endraar went. Not to fight - you could not fight a storm after all - but to save what he could. To rescue knowledge, to preserve the spirit of those lost the storm.

[Starfisher]

Ugh. I need some new music to listen to.

****

The lake is empty and dry, and trees are the anchors for the thousands of smoky tethers holding the black sky in place. The houses and shops and churches are all roofless and crumbling, melting to nothing in that peculiar, blocky way human endeavor seems to favor. The dead, at least, have ceased their wandering and lay down to rest amidst the bones of their world, succumbing at last to the forces they sought to tame.

The firestorm will end soon. There isn’t much oxygen left to sustain the reaction, though things here will smolder for a thousand lifeless generations. Somewhere, maybe in million years, something on some distant planet will chance to look up and see the last dying flash of our greatest moment.

Be at peace, lost child of the world. There remains but one step to take before you too may join the chorus of the dying and the dead, before you will see the world you made with your own eyes instead of through the filters and on the scorched and sooty enclosure you took refuge in this morning.

Open the door, and become one with the ashy wind that may nourish new life when the skies clear in some distant epoch.

[deadguy]

I take the weekend off, and Lestaki starts posting a novel (again) and LoCo makes suggestions as to how and where he should post it (again). This thread is for short stories, which—in this thread—start and finish in the same post and are between 500 and 750 words. They are not sagas. They do not have a part two. And LoCo, despite his good intentions (and suggestion), is not a moderator.

I am.

So, Lestaki, your most recent multi-post story is now 1700 words, and I'm exiling it to its own thread. By all means, keep posting your the rest of that story there.

And LoCo, while we appreciate the keen eye, next time, PM one of the four moderators if you see a problem happening. That's what we're here for.

[LoCo]

Sorry deadguy (Again.). I didn't really see it as a moderator thing as it wasn't disruptive to anyone else, I just thought that he might like it better if it had it's own thread where people would be more prone to discuss it as apposed to here where people might feel that they aren't allowed to post unless it was a story. I don't mean to step on anyone's toes. It wasn't a complaint, I just thought he might be happier doing it the other way.

[deadguy]

You guys really need to straighten up and post between 500 and 750 words. Any further posts that reach 750, will simply be lopped off at 750. This is where the magic of EDITING comes in!

[edit] Clarification: you do not have to reach a 500 word minimum to post, but may end it anywhere between 500 and 750 words, and still have a reasonably short story for this thread. The idea for this thread is to post stories not long enough for their own thread. [/edit]

[bluevorlon]

New Thread Here

Sending this to the garden.