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#1 Vortigern

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Posted 18 August 2008 - 01:19 AM

Post all entries in here, with the name of the piece and a word count at the top. Limit is 1500 words, roughly. Good luck. :p

EDIT to theme: It is now merely 'divisions', which should encompass everything and more of 'subdivisions' and be easier to write about. So go for it.

EDIT to deadline: midnight of the 26th September, BST. Thanks in advance to all who participate. :unsure:

Edited by Vortigern, 09 September 2008 - 02:35 PM.

I hope I am a good enough writer that some day dwarves kill me and drink my blood for wisdom.

#2 Dauth

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Posted 20 August 2008 - 10:10 AM

I've gone for an old story, written in two time periods (and that's how I have interpreted subdivisions). This is an old piece from about 18 months ago so it is not of the highest quality, but I feel it is better than some of my other pieces of a similar age.

Again, I lurch over to the festering pot in the corner, damn the butcher, damn his foul hide, and that pork was fresh? Why do the people of this village seem to cure physical ailments with rotten food?

Depressingly for the second time tonight I cannot grab the pot and throw up all over the floor, it doesn't matter now, but I used to pride myself in being tidy when I left an inn. A swig of absinthe will hopefully dissolve my conscious enough to sleep off the next day of this wretched food poisoning. Quite typically for the day, I knock the bottle over and pour away a small fortune into a badly woven carpet. Well at least the bugs won't bite me while I'm unconscious… yeah no mite may bite.

Awake, see the new day, be ready for the future, and lead us to glory.

As the poor translation of my glorious anthem crosses my eyes the room stops moving enough for me to fall off the bed, which is in fact a travel chest. The bed appears to be covered in vomit, but I can't decide on which party this is a punishment. And, now, the next ritual of the morning. For ten years now I see the same events…

"Stand up you son's of wenches! Show some strength!" The Sergeant going through his morning routine, most people have a shave and get clean, but no, this foul mouthed creature from below the chalk line, he has to shout. Sergeant Miller, a miller's son, someone who grinds flour for a living, too short to fight, so the wretch gets to yell at us.

"Well my lucky little blighters, you're off to the front, which in this case is the gate, try not to get killed", we stand aghast, I may be a good swordsman and a cruel shot with a crossbow but I wouldn't trust this sorry squad to pick up a sword the right way round. "Don't just stand there like you've just been born, get out of my sight and slay some Akspirians. The other half of our noble countries problems; the Akspirians.

The first moment passes in a blink, now I know what is happening my body softens itself for the impending fall.

After pulling a private from the rain of Akspirian crossbow fire I am finally awarded my third stripe. At last Sergeant. Well it wasn't really from my action, the last two had gotten killed by standing up at the wrong time, and my name is easier to remember than any of the names of those below the chalk. My first command to the squad, "Get into cover you bloody fools".

Ducking from brick house to mud hut we advance slowly. Now the archers outcrop can be seen, now all we need is a distraction. I wait, five minutes pass and my squad starts getting nervous, apparently we should be charging. I wait for that idiot Arthur to get angry, he always does, built like an ox, unfortunately brains to match, however for once perfect for the occasion. His most terminal oxen like habit is to eat any vegetation presented, wonderful items mushrooms, and so plentiful. So in three, two… one.

The second moment, in a flash, my knees being to slacken for the sake of my head.

It's a skirmish, a true nightmare for any new soldier; well the recruits will have to learn soon enough. The only things that matter block their attack and stab them, before they run you through. A one on one can take up to 100 square feet, without weapons and armour, so the unfolding carnage cannot be unexpected. One thousand noble Bhemi against twice that in Akspirians. Our spies said there were five hundred poorly armed Akspirians, no doubt that our spy network is compromised. As a Captain I get to watch from a distance, orders from the front line look good for the insane, but I like my skin intact. We do well, only killing as many of our men as the enemy, they take drastic losses. The rules of warfare set down by Continental treaty half a millennia ago may be how they like it done, but I like my men all in one piece.


It's almost over as my arms brace the ground below the tender skull.

No-one should survive 20 arrows, and a lethal does of t'kari mushrooms, Arthur the vegetarian, bursts through our lines, his vast bulk covered by siege armour. Flashing my sabre in the fading light I charge, it is over two thousand feet, a clash of skill and beauty against the rotting stench of treachery. Closing the distance quickly, we race not for the high ground, but to beat the light, for in the dark 'No military manoeuvres may take place with the exception of a withdrawal'. Calling out to a flame spotter, a small arrow illuminates his bovine features; unfazed and unfurling the biggest axe I have ever seen, Arthur accelerates. Calvary against infantry, speed against might, beauty against depravity, I cannot lose. Smiling I plunge my sabre through his neck to the hilt.

Too late the sun had set.

And, now the unnamed terrors await me. With our multiple moons, true night is but two hours, the lunar light keeps away the terrors until the sun banishes them. 'For every death viewed by the terrors they will attempt to exact revenge'. The central core of our battle rules.


Now the pillow is flung five feet behind my prone body. A wince passes my face, one showing that soon, something painful will happen.

Burning my last few minutes here would be foolish, dumping my armour I collect Arthur's axe, 'Only the weapon of you're fallen foe can save you'. Charging for a defendable hill, I can only wait, men have survived, some for years but eventually the terrors take them. My opponent this fateful night, not beast nor god but the terror's best attempt to dredge up my fear. Arthur's bulk would be tiny by comparison, Miller's face is unchanged. Grinning, the grin of one about to die, I heft the axe, almost dislocating my shoulder in the process. It appears I have one chance, one shot at an existence.

Digging a toe hold in the ground, I lower my stance for a charge, the terror has a new weapon, a mace, what a wonderful word, mace, and ace weapon (quartermasters never tire of this joke). A motion, a swing, a crunch of blade against bone. Victory.

Not quite, in its final death throws the mace is moved, with the unstoppable motion of a glacier, I can but watch as my axe misses the handle and the mace connects with my skull.


In a moment of agony, I am flung backwards onto the pillow, each of the five perforations in my face being to bleed and my cranium echoes to the ring of metal.


Word count 1158.

#3 Vortigern

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Posted 27 August 2008 - 03:29 PM

This is something I wrote in the small hours of the morning, when I do most of my writing, and decided I quite liked it. It's about two people from completely different time periods who have fallen in love, but were born several thousand years apart. It's a fairly obvious interpretation of 'division'.

The entry of Vortigern:

Time travel is an odd principle: one can randomly disappear from any point in space and time and, equally arbitrarily, reappear at any chosen point. Of course, some have better control over this than others, as our protagonists found out early on in their romance.

Long distance relationships are always hard. There are the phone calls, the ‘I miss you’s, the planning, where shall we meet next, when will it be, what will we do, how long will it be until next time, and all the rest. Of course, it’s a bit different when you’re trying to maintain a stable and loving relationship across two different time periods. It wasn’t what you might call your standard romantic tale: she the virgin beauty, child of a city-dwelling nobleman, he the scion of their arch-nemeses, sworn to deal death to all those of the opposing house. Far from it. She was a lower-middle class girl from 20th century England, he was Crown Prince of an entire planet some thirty thousand years in her future.

Their preferred meeting spot was a particular snowy garden on the frozen planet of Tarsus, at some point around and about the year 16000 AD, by the ancient and outdated Christian reckoning, where they would go for long strolls in the light of the eighteen moons, most of which rose once every half hour and whizzed across the sky like flashlights at a cosmic rave. Tarsus was a lovely planet really, under all the ice and snow, not to mention that it had a 60% oxygen atmosphere, which always left both parties feeling happy and relaxed, as opposed to the 86% nitrogen of his home planet, which generally left him with a feeling of slightly embittered antipathy. Of course, that may have been because he was looking forward to seeing her again. Love does strange things to us.

The hardest part had been meeting her parents. They hadn’t known what to make of his unusual style of dress, or what they took to be a speech impediment but was in fact the native accent of his homeland. This was exacerbated by his barely speaking a word of English, but she had tried to teach him somewhat, with indifferent success. The psychic translators of Tarsus were invaluable, they had realised. He had stuttered his way through the introductions and the basic questions about his job. They had tried long and hard to come up with something he could pass off. ‘Prince’ probably wouldn’t have sat awfully well with her parents, as she had little doubt they would disbelieve him. In the end they had settled on a career in education, which was respectable enough to sort out a few minor misgivings on the spot.

Meeting his parents had been far easier. She hadn’t even had to learn a new language, as his planet had the same psychic benefits as Tarsus, though sixteen millennia later. His parents were even aware of his time travelling, so it wasn’t a surprise to them to find out she came from a different time period. What was surprising was that she was apparently the only one who came from her particular part of universal history. Humanity seemed to have been going through a temporal depression at the end of 20th century, lasting right up until the early 23rd. But that was neither here nor there. What was far more important was that his parents were quite happy for her to become queen of an entire planet at some point in the future, something which had left her lost for words.

The worst moment in their blooming relationship came early on, when she missed the target a bit, landing on the correct planet seven thousand years too late and on the other side of the world. He had been sitting in the right place at the right time, confused like never before, trying to figure out how it was possible for a time traveller to be late. He came to the conclusion she didn’t want to see him any more, just as she sneaked up behind him. The strangest thing, though, was that she was a far older version of herself, and had apparently come back here specially to tell him not to give up on her. So he waited, and she eventually got close enough to see him. Five days he was waiting there, but his faith was rewarded in the end.

Another time he came to visit her at home, as a nice surprise, and turned up five years too early. She was sixteen years old and sitting reading a book in her garden when he, apparently a complete stranger, appeared. He made a hasty apology in broken English and vanished again, attempting to reappear at the right time. Sadly, he panicked and missed again, landing in the same garden just after her parents had died and she had sold the house. The new tenants had been very surprised indeed. He had sworn effusively in several languages, none of which yet existed, and vanished once more, going home again.

It was always a bit hairy at the start, when she had been learning to time travel, and had not quite got the hang of taking her clothes with her. She had only been twelve years old the first time, and he, by a complete coincidence, not even recognising her, had helped her find something new to wear that would help her fit in on whatever nameless world they had collided upon. Sadly, she had left those clothes behind, or she could have made a fortune from the material back on Earth. This event was what left her with a strange sense of déjà vu when he showed up in her garden four years on.

In the end they got married; she insisted, for her parents’ benefit, and then moved to his planet, a happy life pockmarked by her random disappearances every now and then, when she would turn up at home again, at any given moment of her childhood and young adulthood, and talk to her parents. Eventually they figured out something strange was going on, but by that time they knew she was too old to listen to their advice. Another one bites the dust, as her father said.


Word count: 1047.
I hope I am a good enough writer that some day dwarves kill me and drink my blood for wisdom.

#4 Casojin

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Posted 28 August 2008 - 04:18 AM

Word count: 1317
Just wrote it up this morning. It's a quick short story (normally I'm better with long story) in the future. Humanity was never as one, even in the future.

It was not Earth.

Swarko peered out into the glaring beam that seared through the thick glass. The shade of the sky was not right. He was sure that this was not where he was told. The caretaker said this was Earth, but Swarko’s sense told him that this was not. He had this feeling ever since he arrived on this facility. Yet there was nothing he could do about it. Merely ten Terran Coalition standard years old, Swarko was brought here for an unknown reason. He only knew that his parents were all killed in a terrible accident and there were men from the government who brought him here, reasoning that this was an orphanage.

However, he could not shrug off the strange feeling he had received ever since his arrival to his place. It was as if there were voices everywhere without origin. He was not even allowed to see other children. Swarko was right here in this large and comfortable room for a week. Everything seemed excellent for a young orphan except one thing, how an orphanage was so far from human society. There were endless tides of mountain and forest everywhere and no sign of civilization, not even an aerial transport.

The door clicked, a normal warning sign indicating an arrival of the caretaker. Yet he felt so different. Swarko jumped behind a sofa and crouched behind it. As the door swung open, the caretaker stepped in first and stood aside, letting other two people to come in. Peaking from his hiding place, Swarko could see that both newcomers wore tight grey uniform. One of them carried a long object that looked like a weapon that Swarko could not identified; a rifle-liked object with silver coils replacing the barrel.

The other one raised a strange hand-held device and ran his hand on it expertly. “He’s in here. I can read psych emission above normal level. Go get him.”

Swarko simply knew that the one with weapon was moving forward. The charging sound announced the activation of his strange equipment. Swarko was not sure what to do so he decided to crawl carefully toward another furniture. During his time in early primary school, no one liked him for some reasons and many of those loved to bully him for fun. Swarko had a special knack to avoid the rushing bullies instinctively. His experience had taught him well.

The one at the door walked closer slowly. “He’s playing with us. I think he sense our approach. Kassin, you wait at the door and don’t let him get through you. Ral, you come here and help me find him.”

As the one with weapon walked back to the door, Swarko could feel every bit of it. But then luck was no longer on his side as he reached the last of the room furniture. The caretaker was coming from his front while the other was coming on the back. Swarko finally decided to let go. He sat in desperation as the duo surrounded him.

“There you are,” the caretaker said as he saw the boy.

“Where am I? I know that we’re not on Earth as you told me.” Swarko asked the caretaker as he closed in.

“Impressive.” The uniformed man smiled as he approached. “Do you really know that by yourself?”

“Yes, I’m not stupid.” Swarko spat.

Still smiling, the man patted Swarko’s shoulder gently. “Okay, boy. Today I’ll show you where you are and also why you’re here. Is that good enough for you?”

Swarko nodded. The man continued to smile, “But first, I would like to give you this gift.”

He handed Swarko a beautiful locket. The boy grinned and put it on. There was also a red blinking on it. The man turned to the caretaker and said with commanding tone. “Bring him to the lounge, Ral.”

“Yes, sir.” Ral the caretaker took Swarko hand and walked out.

The man followed until he was face to face with Kassin at the door. “Theta level psych. Suppressible by inhibitor. I hope we fared better for others.”

“You hope to see Alpha?” Kassin asked, lowering his weapon. “If we face Alpha, this little toy wouldn’t be effective at all.”

“Our devices always have limit.”

That was what Swarko last heard. He was brought along a round corridor that the outer side was a cluster of rooms and the inner side was a drop, going down almost fifty meters. High above, the facility rose upward fifty meters. Ral led Swarko toward an elevator shaft and brought him several levels up. The door slid opened and Swarko was pushed out to a circular room with children waiting inside. The door quickly closed, leaving Swarko inside a room with no other visible exit. He wondered why he didn’t know that Ral was going to push him out but decided against pursuing the matter. This room was large and surrounded with thick glass, showing the environment outside. The mountain and landscape were magnificent. He had never seen anything like it in his life.

“Hello.” A young girl approached him. “You’re new.”

“I think so.” Swarko replied, uncertain to give her his trust. Then he saw the same locket around her neck, though with different blinking color.

“Why are we here?” Swarko didn’t let down his curiosity.

The girl shook her head and said, “My name is Eyana. What’s your name?”

“Swarko.”

“Would you like to come and play with us over there?”

“Okay.” Swarko had never been asked so friendly before, so he decided to go along.

While these children enjoyed playing and communing with one another, there were eyes watching them silently through video feed. A group of men and women in grey uniform worked tirelessly to monitor the younglings. Each one of them had a golden brain on top of six-pointed star crest embedded on their uniform. Two armed guards stood at ease before the entrance of this dark room.

The door slid open and the duo that checked Swarko earlier entered. The guards quickly saluted them both. Kassin stowed his weapon on the charging pad next to the entrance. The other one headed toward the monitor room. A female operator stood attention quickly and saluted sharply, “Greeting, colonel, sir.”

“As you were,” said the man. He grabbed another uniform with name tag “Mattius Lershin” then put it on. The colonel gave his device to another woman in white gown. “How this one fare?”

The woman checked the device for a moment then enlarged the video feed to Swarko. “This one seems interesting. He seems to be smart. If everything went successfully, he’ll enter the program in a month. Afterward, as you know, there is no guarantee.”

“Good,” Colonel Lershin smiled, “and how soon will our first generation of psych-commandos be operational?”

“Two weeks.” The woman answered stoically.

“Very well. I’ll consult with supreme commander and prepare a deployment plan against the Separatists.” Lershin turned on his heel and entered his office.

He looked out to the stars outside this space station and smiled, rethinking of current situation. The outer colonial planets were plagued by Separatist movement for decades. With too less influence from the Coalition central governing body, the movement had turned into a rebellion. Coalition troops were being deployed to regain control but with little success. Lershin hoped that his plan to eliminate the key leaders of the Separatists might strike fear into their hearts and collapse their operation in short time. The first generation of psych-commandos, trained from childhood, would soon be deployed. Hidden among the Rings of Saturn, this advanced space station would produce the most sophisticated soldiers for the coming conflict. Only one in billion of humanity possessed this psychic gene, causing from hyperspace travel mutation. They would be raised in virtual environment, thanked to the holographic technology, and undergone immense trainings before becoming the fiercest warriors in the entire Coalition.


CASOJIN

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#5 Rafv Nin IV

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Posted 17 September 2008 - 01:30 AM

Concerning the deadline:

Is BST the same as Greenwich Mean Time? I'm assuming it stands for British Standard Time.

Edited by Ravnin IV, 17 September 2008 - 01:30 AM.

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#6 Vortigern

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Posted 17 September 2008 - 07:19 PM

British Summer Time. Yeah, it more or less is. Go by GMT if you find that easier.
I hope I am a good enough writer that some day dwarves kill me and drink my blood for wisdom.

#7 Mathijs

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Posted 17 September 2008 - 08:02 PM

I wonder...

If I mattered so much to you,
and you so much to me...

Images fade in and out,
whenever I hear that song,
or think of that book,
of our favourite film.

What wouldn't I give,
for another cup of tea.
To watch you work tirelessly,
you never did finish that painting.

I'm getting nervous...
it takes time now to bring back your face.
That what was once so vivid and bright,
I fear I might lose it forever...
yet I have done so before.

I want to take you out,
just for a little walk.
We could sit on our bench,
and we could talk.

I'm afraid,
scared to death and back.
The years, they multiply...

That what was once so real,
crisp and clear,
your tone of voice,
the shape of you.
It takes time now,
and sooner or later...

I couldn't fix you,
and now I can't fix myself.
You are gone,
and inevitably I will be too.

The touch of your hand,
the warmth of your smile.
It takes time...
so much time now,
so much time...

First I lost you,
and now it seems my fate repeats.
Your face is fading,
your memory is vague.
There was nothing I could do,
and nothing now.

I wonder,
if I mattered so much to you,
and you sure did matter much to me,
why have I lost your beautiful memory?


My entry.

No fuel left for the pilgrims


#8 Rafv Nin IV

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Posted 25 September 2008 - 10:27 PM

Word count: 720

The sun rose.

It should have been a merry sort of light, bright and yellow to remind the men rotting in the trench of happier days, of the times when they ran free in the streets as children, of the occasions they shouted at their parents in adolescent rage, of the moments that lasted hours in the arms of their beloveds.

Cresting the artillery-strafed hills that star should have emerged brilliant and firm, proof that the verdant pastures of England had not succumbed to the violence and suffering that so permeated Belgium.

Instead, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, the soldiers on both sides felt a sense of foreboding. Crimson veins bled out across the haze, capillaries meeting arteries, and the deep red stretched in ever-growing tendrils. The already corpse-filled No Man’s Land bathed once again in maroon beams, and the friends of those lying there doubted if the bloodshed would ever end. Sickly yellow-green tinged the edges of the hills as gangrene did to the feet of those sitting in the mud and muck.

The British soldiers stood ready to defend against a morning assault, as did those across the barbed wire. It did not come.

A Scotsman held his hand over the edge briefly and let fly the first angry metal of the Morning Hate. Answering machine-gun fire erupted spontaneously from each section of the trenches. No specific targets were chosen; no man faced any injury from this explosion of fighting; but all present felt the tension lessen.

The anxiety returned swiftly with a single glance at the blood-stained sky.

Gradually, the violence ebbed away and the men went back to their business. A voice sounded through the narrow slit in the ground. The Englishmen grumbled and rested their tired bodies in the squelching mire. Buttons straightened and bayonets sharpened, so that when the pre-breakfast inspection arrived the men could be granted indifference.

Glob plopped onto tin plates. The dishes made their way down the lines, where some awaited eagerly, some less eagerly, but all to partake. One combatant scratched his greasy head, and a showering of lice crawled over his food. Furious at having left their own morning meal, they grew even more irate when the hand wearily shoveled them into the mouth regardless.

A rat scurried over a foot. A sharp bayonet pierced its skin. The act failed to deter the rest of the swarm that feasted on the remains that none dared to retrieve.

Tasks issued themselves endlessly from the officers, and the lowly sufferers resignedly refilled sandbags and drained the pooled water at the bottom of the trench. A single shot rang out, and all turned. A new recruit fell backward, another victim of the natural inclination to peer over the top at No Man’s Land. The despairing residents raged not because of the death, as they had grown apathetic to the decay and destruction, but because of another chore that impeded the writing of the letters home.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the evil rubies in the air vanished, leaving behind a monotonous grey.

An artillery shell blasted the trench at noon. No noise from those closest. Torturous wails from the surrounding men. Groans from the rest. More bodies to move, more rebuilding to do.

A whisper made its way through the arrangement, and officers brought confirmation.

At dusk the stand to repeated itself, and the heavens shone scarlet again.

Except the British did not fix their bayonets to ward off a raid. They charged.

The thunder of foot on dirt matched with the roar and din of bullets, and the spray of red merged with the thickening mist. And the complete futility of it all reached the former schoolteachers and farmhands as they rushed towards the German trenches. Those that receded felt the pain of metal in their back as much as those that kept moving hurt in the fore. The families home would receive the letters for the last time; it would mean nothing. Naught but a pointless conflict over pointless ambitions of leaders who did not see the pointlessness of war.

Soon the bubbles in the bloodbath popped, and the water flowed down the drain. The sun set.

All the men hoped the red had left forever, and that golden sun would shine once more.


Edited by Ravnin IV, 25 September 2008 - 10:38 PM.

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