Iron Author Contest (This is the Creative Writing Contest)

[Ravyn]

An extension is not necessary but would be greatly appreciated--holiday season, misbehaving internet, I'm sure you get the idea.

[Yawielas]

A story about a boxer and a Mississippi town. Word count 1223.

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The G-Man


Gerald smiled. He felt good. He’d already dropped the world Super-Middleweight champion out of the ring twice. This would be his first win in the new weight class. He dodged a blow from Benn, and followed up with two quick jabs against the champion’s torso. Round ten. Normally his opponents wouldn’t get past the third round, but as expected, Nigel Benn was not going down so easy. The two boxers danced around the ring to the cheer of the crowd, and Gerald could hear Emanuel shout something from the corner. His focus was all on his opponent, though, looking for an opening in his defence, looking for an opportunity to land his fabled knock out. Moving in, his muscles tensed in preparations for that final blow. Emanuel shouted again. Then the world exploded in sparks of light.

He was standing in a street. A street in a small town, it seemed. The sun was shining, and the air was hot and humid. Still wearing his boxer shorts and gloves, Gerald looked around, more than a little confused. “Where the heck am I?” –“Sherman, Mississippi”, a voice replied from behind, and he spun around, fists ready. The man standing before him was clad in a white toga, with a red shoulder drape, and had a golden wreath around his head. His skin was a Mediterranean tan, and a prominent nose dominated his stern face. “I’m number one,” he said. “But you might know me as Gaius Julius Caesar. The greatest military strategist that ever lived.” – “Number one? Caesar?” Gerald replied, still confused. “Yes, let me show you,” the Roman said, gesturing towards a large structure suddenly appearing up the street.

The huge building was made of stone, and had tall roman columns lining the wall. “The Circus Maximus. Walk with me, my friend.” The long dead dictator put his arm around Gerald’s shoulder and started walking towards the circus. The boxer shook his head. “This isn’t right. There’s no roman buildings of this size in Mississippi, not that I’ve heard of. I thought you said we’re in Sherman, Mississippi, but here you are, and that building….” – “I’ll explain it to you. Sherman is what you want it to be. This is where we go, after we die. All the great fighters of the world. There are other places like this, of course, scattered across the world. Here in Sherman we’ve got a population of 548. 549 with you.” Suddenly they were sitting on a bench inside the circus, watching a fight between a gladiator and a lion. The gladiator stepped back as the lion’s claws shredded his shield, but with a quick twist he pierced the animal’s throat with his gladius and was rewarded with a warm spray of blood. Grinning he turned to the two spectators, shouting:“ I’m number two! My name is Spartacus! Follow me!” The gladiator ran out of the arena, and Gerald suddenly found himself on a dry, stony field outside the town. No, not outside. Inside of town. The ground was shaking and the air was filled with a thundering sound. Out of nowhere an army of riders appeared, galloping past him. The men on the horses were dressed in leather and fur, and sported long thin moustaches and black hair. The most imposing figure of them all pulled his reins, making his stallion rear up in front of the boxing champion. “I am number three! Djenghis Khan! Feel my might!” The Mongolian war chief spurred his horse on and vanished in a cloud of dust. This is insane…I’m going insane… Gerald rubbed his eyes. What’s happening to me? “FREEEEEDOOOOOOOOM!!!” The sudden shout startled him, and he took his hands from his eyes, only to see a blue painted, long haired white man in a kilt, wielding a two handed sword running across the grass towards him. “I am number four! William Wallace! What did you shout before you died, newcomer?! This is the ultimate freedom!” The boxer stumbled backwards, away from the Scotsman with the big sword.

A man reached down to give him a hand up. “Let me help you there. Welcome to Sherman. I’m number five. Sir Gawain by name. Some call me the Perfect Knight.” He smiled. The man was dressed in medieval armour and had a gold cross around his neck. “You will get used to it, do not worry.” Gerald stood. “This is just….too much, you know?” He looked around. The grassy field was now the courtyard of a castle. The gates opened to let a lone rider into the….fort? The man was wearing a red and blue uniform, and had his right hand tucked into his vest. He gave a salute, addressing Gerald in a heavy French accent. “Bonjour, I am number six. One of the greatest generals that ever lived, Napoléon Bonaparte. How do you like our little village? Tres charmante, n’est pas?” – “Uh, sure…” Gerald replied. “But what happens now?” – “We are not done yet,” the short Frenchman said. “Hah, he’s right about that!” It was a new voice, young and with an attitude. The boxer turned to see a young man, little more than a boy, really, in front of him. He was dressed in a dirty white shirt, dark pants and a leather coat, and had two revolvers holstered at his sides. “Look at you! Pugilist!” The boy laughed. “I’m number seven. One of my many names. The most famous is probably Billy the Kid, the fastest gun in the west!” He laughed again, sounding on the verge of insanity. “That’s it, I’m outta here…” Gerald started heading back to town. It was still changing, constantly flickering with every whim of it’s inhabitants.

“Crazy, isn’t it…” A man in an old air force uniform was walking next to him. “Number 8. Donald Wise is the name. Top B-17 bombardier during World War II. Flew mostly out of Italy. Never expected to end up here, though.” Gerald blinked, and the man was gone. In stead a familiar figure was gliding down the street towards him. An Asian looking man in black training pants and a bare chest. Gerald could almost see his name in shining letters. Bruce Lee. The martial artist bowed to him. “The ring is a dangerous place. I am number nine. I’m looking forward to your company, mister McClellan.” He gestured towards a boxing ring in the middle of the square. “Go on…Take the floor. This is your arena.” The boxer looked from mister Lee to the ring, then climbed the stairs and through the ropes. Inside the ring waited one of the greatest heavyweights of all time. “Rocky Marciano,” Gerald breathed. The champion smiled. “Yes. That’s me. Are you ready now?” – “Ready for what?” – “Number ten…” – “What’s comes after number ten?” The only undefeated heavyweight champion shook his head. “After ten, you either get up or stay down…What’s it gonna be, champ?” The ring was suddenly surrounded by people. Gerald could recognize some of the faces he’d already seen, and they were all watching him, expectantly. All watching and counting down. Get up or stay down. The faces became blurred. The whole town of Sherman, Mississippi started spinning out of focus. The voices followed him into the darkness. “He’s fading!” – “He’s waking up! He’s lost to us now.” –“Too bad….the kid had potential.”

[Ravyn]

Meh, forget yesterday's post; I hit a spurt of inspiration this morning. Here we go: 978 words on a submarine and an Iowa county.

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Crack!
Jordan Greene was out of bed before he’d realized what was going on, rolling to the floor and—for a total of five seconds—groping around near the foot of a bed for a weapon that wasn’t there. Then reality sank in. Yes, there was a rush of water and a rumbling, a perpetual plinking and a constant roar of wind, and he’d definitely heard the sound of breaking wood, but there weren’t the usual shouts and shots he’d hear at the same time on the Poacher. The room was as dark as he’d remembered—as dark as he’d liked it—even with something flashing on and off at the edge of his vision, but he could still see curtains—he’d never seen curtains on the sub he’d called home. The bed was too wide, the…
This wasn’t the Sea Poacher. This was a little place just outside of Alta. He was home.
I really need to quit doing this, he thought, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet, wincing at the pain in his leg, and flicking a shock of silver hair out of his eyes. Sixty years and I’m still jumping at shadows. No wonder I’m Kip’s favorite case study. Dang gutter isn’t helping. Sounds too much like back then. But if I’m not using it…
The dreams hadn’t helped. Black water and the echo of boots on metal. Shots fired and boats breaking. And that explosion…
I am not back on the boat. I am not back on the boat. I am NOT back on the boat. I am NOT back on the blasted BOAT!
But the memories wouldn’t fade. Even with the time he’d had between them and it. The leg he’d nearly lost when the gun blew had long since healed, but on cold winter pre-mornings like this it still ached. And those boats… the whole uncertainty…
It has been sixty YEARS. What is in the past cannot be changed. I am NOT on the blasted BOAT!
But if that was the case, what had woken him up? He stumbled to the window, pushed outside the curtains.
It was a little after dawn, but you could scarcely tell from how dark the sky was—a near-uniform gunmetal, broken only by silhouettes of trees and the storm itself. Thunder rumbled nearly overhead, lightning illuminated the sky on and off, and the howling wind and the gurgling rush of water in the gutter seemed to be outdoing each other. Between the flashes he checked out the usual suspects for breaking wood. Wasn’t the backyard shed this time. Wasn’t either of the two big trees.
It worth checking out? Jordan was surprised he even had to ask himself. If it woke him up like this, it was always worth checking out. He didn’t think of himself as superstitious in the normal sense, but in this case—well, his ghosts were a stubborn lot, whether they existed or not, so it was best to make sure the cause was something real. Just to make sure he wasn’t going to start hearing…
He shook his head as if that would clear his mind, tossed on a ratty blue bathrobe, stepped into his slippers, and padded his way to the front door. At least the old times had done him good, he reflected. The leg aside, he was still pretty healthy for a man pushing 85. And even asleep, he’d remembered how to kick out of bed without taking half the sheets with him.
Small victories, he thought wryly as he reached the door, bracing himself against the cold. Small victories. They worth it? Kip had asked that question a lot. Pushing for a yes every time, of course, because that was Kip, and Kip was an optimist. And being paid to keep Jordan from losing his grip. He was old and tired, lonely and haunted. People didn’t come and talk much; his sister had moved to California long ago, and only called on holidays, usually forgetting the time difference at that. The kids who’d come after school every week, clamoring for war stories, had long since grown up. He still hadn’t quite figured out his computer, and what was there to look at, anyway?
Beyond the door, the air was cold. The rain was pelting down, so hard it was a wonder he was able to see. And hail. Far, far too much hail. An awful storm even by his standards.
I hope I don’t have to go out in tha—dang it! The good news was, he didn’t. What had broken was clearly visible. The bad news: That old cedar tree in front of the house had finally given up the ghost. Across his driveway at that.
Silver lining, Jordan, silver lining. Kip had drilled that into him the first year or two after he’d gotten back. Find the plus side to everything. He’d rather appreciated it, in retrospect; irritating though it was, it was a routine, and routines were good to cling to. And it’d kept him from losing his mind long ago. This time… well, nothing else had been hit. The old bucket of bolts should still be working. If he could get word to town, he could probably get one of those kids to come around, move the tree, help pick up the sticks. Probably cost him—seemed like every time he needed his yard cleared after a storm, whoever he found had raised prices again—but that was what the pension was for. For now, what would happen would happen. Maybe later he’d call Kip and see if he could get something arranged.
But right now, it was a day no sane person would want to be walking the roads of Buena Vista County, the old leg was reminding him of the storm, and all Jordan wanted was to go back to bed.

[TheSilverKnight]

I might need an extension I am not sure. I will be back home sometime tomorrow but when I do get home I will have my new tablet so I might play with that before I get around to writing anything so we will see. I got ideas just not in the mood to write now even tho I have my new comp here with me I am just bored, sick and uninspired here at my grandmas house.

[The Vorpal Tribble]

It'll be close if I do enter one. Main family vehicle suddenly went bad with one of its key computer components that so rarely needs replaced that the service folks say they only hear of maybe one or two other instances a year of this occurring.

As such, we were unable to go to family christmas get together, so the family came to use and will be staying likely until the new years. This equals lots of busy stuff going on ;)

[averagejoe]

Here it is, 3350 words.

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The moors of Avalon, while not containing the magic and history of the island for which they were named, nonetheless held many mysteries and adventures, especially for an inquisitive young mind. They held a wild romance of the sort which is always associated with such places; wild, grassy hills tumbled up and down the windswept valley, the flowing waves of grass interrupted here and there by crags of rock sticking up from the ground, and the sky always seemed to hold promise of rain or storm, especially in the winter months when it was ever dark upon the moors of Avalon. The snow from the mountains to the north never reached the settlements on the moors, but the sea, far, far to the west, always conjured up a biting wind for those harsh winter months, causing houses to rattle and the long grass to bow as if in supplication.

Such a wind whipped at Lily, causing her dress to flutter out to one side as she stood at the peak of one of the hills. One hand held her straw hat firmly to her head, and eager, bright eyes sought the landscape, taking in the sights of the wild, romantic country. Staring out at the mountains to the north was something Lily never tired of; the mountains always seemed so old to Lily, like the titans from the lands of old. Lily liked to imagine that they had wearied of the old counties and come here, now sitting in quiet silence and contemplating great things. She told this to her various companions, but Susan didn’t like such stories and Adam had said that they were just rocks that had dug their way up from the ground. Adam was always saying things like that. Lily always wondered that the wildness of the moors never seemed to grab hold of her friend; Susan, at least, always seemed frightened and awed by the strange feeling that held Lily at such rapt attention, but Adam didn’t seem to feel one way of the other. Even now he sat with Susan, both of them crouched on the lee side of one of the many rocks that jutted out of the moors. Lily looked at the pair; Adam said something to her, but the wind was too loud and Lily couldn’t hear. She went to the stone and crouched down with her two friends. The relief of the stone was instant and gratifying. The ancient rock buffered the children against the howling wind, sheltering them against its bite.

“What did you say?” Lily asked Adam.

“I said,” her companion stated with a familiar, mischievous grin, “that you shouldn’t stand out in the wind like that. The ghosts from the ocean ride on the west wind, and they’re always looking for little girls to take back to their homes and drink their blood.”

“Oh, stop,” Susan wailed, “Lily, make him stop. He’s been like this since we got here.”

“But it’s true,” Adam insisted, “It’s the ghosts of the dead soldiers who sailed out from Ithaca to battle with the kingdom of Troy, which had tamed the giant horses of Valhalla. Their captain, Ulysses, shot a great seabird, which the gods had sent as a sign of good luck, so he and his crew were cursed and turned into animals and fed to the savage tribe of Cyclops, giants with only one eye. Now they need the blood of young girls to feed to Cerberus, the dark lord of the dead, so they can find peace.” Susan shrieked and buried her face in her hands, which only made Adam’s grin widen, “They especially like young girls with brown hair and pigtails, who scream and cry all the time.”

Lily sighed and rolled her eyes at her friend. “It’s okay, Sue, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Everyone knows that Ulysses was killed by Achilles at the gates of Troy, and then his son married his wife, and then tore out his own eyes.”

“How horrible!” Sue cried, and Adam laughed some more.

“Sue,” Lily said calmly, “there are no such things as
ghosts. Adam’s just trying to frighten you.”

Adam giggled wildly, “You say that Lily, but just wait until the ghosts come to get you.” Lily swung a punch at her friend who fell over backward and into the wind, where his hat blew off from his head and was carried off down the moor. As Adam went chasing after his hat, Sue and Lily laughed and went to their homes arm in arm.

* * * * *

That evening, Lily peeked out the window of her house as the wind rattled the windows. It was dark outside, too dark to see anything. It was a new moon, and a layer of clouds covered the stars. The only light were a few candles, and the old oil lamp her father used to see outside. Lily thought of Adam’s ghost story and shivered. Somehow it seemed more plausible here, in the darkness of night. It was ridiculous, of course. Ghosts weren’t real. Still, on nights like this it seemed like anything was possible. She shivered and pulled her blanket further over her head, trying not to imagine what was lurking out there, unseen, in the darkness. Here, at her father’s house, there wasn’t even the light of town to keep her company; her father’s house was far from the town, a lone cottage at the far end of the settlement.

There was a loud noise, and Lily jumped with a shrill, “Eek!” She turned and saw that it was just her father returning home. The tall man wore a concerned expression when he went to his daughter. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Lily looked at her feet. “It’s nothing. It’s just… well, Adam was telling some ghost stories today. I mean, I know ghosts aren‘t real, but still…”

Her father smiled with relief, secure in the knowledge that his daughter was simply frightened and not in any real danger. He took her up in his arms and said, “Well, we’ll have to do something about those ghosts. Luckily, I know just the thing.” He took her to their wooden table and sat her down. The man rooted through his cupboards for a few minutes, finally stopping when he found what he was looking for. He took a small wooden box from one of the top shelves and took it to the table, sitting across form his daughter. The candlelight illuminated her face, and the rest of the room seemed to be lost in darkness. “My grandmother, your great grandmother,” Lily’s father began, “was a soothsayer for the village long before I was born. She died when I was very young, but she left some things behind to help us out.” He opened the box and a pleasant smell wafted out. He showed his daughter what was inside and said, “This herb doesn’t grow anywhere on Avalon. My grandmother’s great grandmother brought it with her from the old lands when she came here. This is all that was left of her original stash, and try as I might I cannot grow it here. I’ll give some of this to you, though.” He handed a sprig to his daughter; it was still fresh and green, kept so by the airtight container and whatever sorceries his sires knew. The sprig had a small white flower on the end, which Lily smelled. “It was called satureja by my grandmother’s people, but before that it was called something else: savory, because it was used to prepare food long before its more useful properties were discovered. Now we know that it keeps out evil things, because they can’t stand the smell or taste of it. If you keep this with you than no ghosts or monsters can get you, no matter what.”

Lily looked at the herb with a contemplative look on her face. Satureja, she though to herself, and smiled.

* * * * *

When the morning came, the whole affair seemed a bit silly. Even so, Lily kept the satureja sprig with her wherever she went, keeping safe her father’s precious gift. Lily wasn’t scared by Adam’s stories, not really, but it was still a comfort to know that her father’s protection was always with her. She always kept it in a metal box which had belonged to her mother, locking in the scent even after it became dry and crumbly. She would take it out and take in its fragrance on the long winter nights when her father was away, the smell bringing her comfort in the dark of their cottage.

It was on one such night that Lily was startled by a loud wail outside just as she was settling into bed. She sat frozen in fear, thinking the ghosts had come upon her. The wail came again, and Lily’s breath caught in her chest. She knew she should go see what it was; it was probably a traveler caught on the moor. It may have jut been an animal. Lily had to go see what it was, but she couldn’t move. Finally, she made herself stand up. She clutched her box of satureja to her chest and walked cautiously to the door. She was still in her nightgown, for she knew that she had already wasted a good deal of time, but she did tie her hair back and string up her boots. With a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her box in one hand and the oil lamp in the other, Lily opened the door and braved the dark night.

The lamp was little help in the darkness of the evening. The east wind whipped around her, causing the protected light to flicker, and her hair and shawl to whip around. Her light seemed to be swallowed up by the sheer volume of darkness, and Lily struggled to see where she was going. Lily searched around, looking where she thought the wail had come from. She searched for many minutes, and was about to give up, when the wail came again. She turned to search for the source of the wail, but saw nothing. It came again, this time from a different direction, and Lily’s heart leapt into her throat. The whirled around, searching for the source of the noise. She stumbled, and her boot caught on a rock sticking from the ground. She fell forward and collapsed, loosing both her box and her light.

Lily lay still, not even daring to look up. Her breathing came out in short, ragged breaths as she tried to slow her breathing so it would not be heard, even though her heart was racing and her body wanted to take quick breaths. She collected herself, and went to search the ground on her hands and knees. Finally, by a stroke of luck, she found her box, still mercifully shut with the satureja inside. She clutched the box and curled up on the ground, letting the wind whip around her. She was cold and uncomfortable, but she was afraid to move around in the darkness. Lily tried to be strong, but it was difficult to keep the tears back. Just when the flow of tears seemed inevitable, Lily heard a soft, comforting voice. “Why do you rest here, child? Are you lost.” Lily opened her eyes and let out a shriek that split the dark night.

They gathered around Lily, their luminescent, incorporeal forms barely visible even on such a dark night. Lily’s eyes were saucer plates as she stared out at the throng that had appeared so silently. The wind was whipping down the moor with a renewed sharpness, but these insubstantial beings seemed unaffected by it. They all had cruel faces, as far as she could tell; their faces were as shadowy as the rest of them, but they all seemed to be grinning and laughing. Lily soon realized that they were laughing at her.

“Come with us, little girl,” one jeered, “we’ll take you home.”

“Is the young miss afraid of the dark?”

“Lost, lost, lost. Chill of the moor and bite of the frost.”

White faced and teary eyed, Lily couldn’t seem to think or move as the spirits danced around her. The only thing that burned in her mind was that one word: ghost. Lily clutched tighter at the box and whispered, “Wha… what do you want.”

“What do we want, dear?”

"We want the blood of young girls.”

“It is ever so yummy, and we are ever so hungry.”

“Young girls like sweets, cakes, and bread. We prefer your toes and head!”

The taunting voices erupted in a peal of laughter. Lily began to find her voice; the spirits, it seemed, could only taunt and jeer. “You can’t hurt me,” she said, “I have the satureja.” She brandished her box like a talisman, and the spirits reeled back. They spoke, but this time it was not cruel laughter that rose up from the throng, but anger and fear.

“Foolish little girl, to be so defiant.”

“You think us powerless?”

“You may have your little plant, but we can hurt you, don’t think we can’t.”

“Does your friend Susan have the plant?”

“Does your father?”

“We shall take their blood!”

“We shall bleed the village dry!”

“You will be safe, but we will haunt you forever!”

Strength surged into Lily’s legs at the threats to her friends and family. She leapt up and ran toward the house. She knew she had to take the plant and give it to everyone. Stumbling in the darkness, Lily tried to outrun the taunting voices behind her. Her legs began to tire, and she almost fell twice, but she kept going. The voices seemed everywhere, and she caught a glimpse of a horrid, ghostly face everywhere she turned. Lily ran and ran. It seemed like forever, and it seemed like no time at all. Suddenly, Lily’s feet lost the ground and she let out a shriek as she sank into what seemed like solid ground. In a flash Lily realized that she must have gotten turned around in the darkness. She had overshot the swamp and ran into the marshlands that lay to the south and west. No one ever went there, for they were treacherous. Lily struggled to stay afloat, but she felt herself slowly sinking. She thrashed around, trying to find purchase. Finally her hand caught on a clump of land, and she hauled, trying to drag herself out of the water. She pulled and pulled, climbing onto the solid bank. She climbed out and lay down, half frozen and too tired to be afraid of the night. She reached for her box, and froze when it wasn’t there. She searched herself and the land around her, but to no avail. The precious herb had sunk into the swamp. Chattering, cruel voices arrived on the wind, and Lily screamed and screamed.

* * * * *

The daylight came, but it brought no comfort to Lily. It was too late for that. There was a gray haze over everything, boxing the land in with its oppressive presence. Head and legs in pain, she stood from where she had fallen the previous night, back near her house. She saw the shattered remains of her oil lamp lying nearby, and her box lay near it. Lily picked up the box, cradling it to her chest. She felt relief wash over her, a security that the sun hadn’t brought. Then, and ominous feeling swept over her, and she looked inside it. The satureja was gone. A pain split her skull and she shrieked. The pain overwhelmed her, and she felt herself pass out on the ground.

There was a dampness over Lily when she came to again. It was as she remembered it; she was on the bank of the marshes, wet and weary, with little idea of what had passed that night. She heard voices around her that she could not yet see.

“What is to be done with her?”

“Has she been taken by them?”

"Can we trust her?”

“Best to kill her just to be safe.”

“We can’t do that-she may be an innocent.”

At first Lily thought it was the specters, but the voices were too substantial for that. She managed to open her eyes, and through her bleary vision she saw solid shapes. Gasps and cries of “She awakes,” came from all around. Lily’s vision slowly cleared, and she saw a huddled mass of adults from the nearby village; her father was not among them.

“Lily,” one of them said gently, “Lily, can you understand me?”

Lily spoke in a voice that surprised her, “You fools shall be long buried before I acknowledge your right to speak to me, maggot.” Lily’s eyes went wide and she clapped her hand over her mouth. She had meant to say, “Of course I can understand you,” but it had come out funny.

The crowd gasped, and they chattered among themselves. The man said carefully, “Now, Lilly, this is no time for games. Why don’t you…”

Lily hadn’t meant to say anything, but her voice came out with a booming resonance that belied her sore, dry throat, “Only a fool like you would think this is a game. We’ll see how much of a game this is once I’ve taken your children.” The crowd gasped again, and Lily felt the momentary hope wane as they whispered words like “devil,” and “possessed.” She inched away from the crowd, which was slowly turning on her.
She was young, but she somehow understood what the beginnings of a mob looked like.

Without warning, just as the mob was beginning to turn violent, something yanked Lilly from behind. She felt herself go flying through the air, over the moor and past the village. She didn’t scream this time; her throat was ragged to scream, and she was too tired to even be frightened. She found that now she only wanted to sleep.

A circle of stones sat on the ground, and Lily knew this was her destination. This was far away from the village, farther than anyone she knew had gone. She landed softly in the middle of the stone circle and felt a nausea overtake her. She opened her mouth to vomit, but nothing came out. Even so, she felt something leave her. It was quite indescribable, but she knew that whatever had made her say those things was gone. Lily looked around as she caught her breath. It was a peaceful place she was in, a quiet meadow with the sun just peaking the horizon, much different from the fierce, windswept moor on which she had lived her whole life. Then Lily heard a sound. At first she thought it was a sort of bird, but realized it was much too rhythmic for that. Her eyes widened in realization as she figured out that the sound was metal clanking against metal. She realized the danger she was in and, forcing her tired legs up from the ground, she ran for the edge of the circle of stones. Each step felt like agony, but there was something inside of her desperately saying that she needed to get outside the stone circle.

I made it, thought Lily as she reached the stones. Just then a fierce figure appeared in the gap she sought. It was a tall man, dressed head to foot in battered, rusty armor. He had a grim, pale face and eye sockets that held nothing. Lily fell backwards from the fierce being, crawling on her elbows to get away from it. Then she looked around, and saw that other such figures closing in from all around. No two were the same, but they all wore similar armor, and all wore the same grim face. None of them had eyes. They said nothing as they marched inward; their faces may as well have been stone. Lily struggled to find a way out, but there was nothing. She opened her mouth to shout, beg, scream, anything, but nothing came out. The figures marched steadily inward.

[Brickwall]

Hmm...well, I can understand not including the Pern thing. Still, I think your ending is lacking. She gets away, but then gets attacked by men in armor?! OMFGWTFLOL?!??!1 If I were writing it, she'd have been executed. Then again, I lost the contest, so I wouldn't recommend listening to me.

Also, the flagrant bastardization of the Odyssey grates on my nerves. Even if it's intentional.

[averagejoe]

Hmm...well, I can understand not including the Pern thing. Still, I think your ending is lacking. She gets away, but then gets attacked by men in armor?! OMFGWTFLOL?!??!1 If I were writing it, she'd have been executed. Then again, I lost the contest, so I wouldn't recommend listening to me.

Actually, you're exactly right. In general I've been having trouble with my endings, and not just in this contest. On both of my stories I haven't been entierly satisfied with how I ended things, but have never had any idea what else to do. Plus, I've always been a bit too much of a fan of those endings that leave a lot to one's imagination, which I know aren't everyone's cup of tea. Or coffee, I guess, if you're American.

[Cult_of_the_Raven]

a thing I learned that is really powerful with endings, is try to tie your title ( the first thing a reader sees ) in with your ending.(the last thing a reader sees) take the last thing your character does, and try to make a title out of that.
it will make any ending a lot stronger. won't fix it completely, but it will make it stronger.

[Brickwall]

Yeah, people remember beginnings and endings better than anything. That also helps with poetry when organising your lines. If you don't have a title, your ending should relate to your beginning strongly.

Ironically enough, beginnings and endings are the hardest parts. Just work at it, joe.

[ZombieRockStar]

So here we are. A scant 600 or so words on a submarine and a county.

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Arms

A submarine is a hot place. The cramped space, a boiler engine for a furnace. Not even the freezing water can cool it. Metal is warm to touch. Everything here is made of metal. Wool is hot. All navy uniforms are made of wool. It hurts to wear, especially when it gets wet. Condensation on the inside, steam from the boiler room, leaks. The sea is never seen, but it is always wet.

I had never seen the ocean until two years ago. I'm from Iowa. My dad had a farm in Buena Vista county. I signed up for the navy because the government wanted more sailors, so it opened a navy recruitment office in my county. I would've had to go three counties over otherwise.

I work in the torpedo room. I am constantly touching metal. It's warm and uncomfortable. I have blisters on my hands from so many hours of work.

We haven't been in combat, really. Just patrolling on the surface for weeks. No Japanese boats at all.

At home, in Iowa, I watched my father's aim with the axe slip and take the arm off my brother, who was holding down the chicken. This was when I was thirteen. I remember being unbelievably scared, doing nothing but screaming. My father did the same. We both thought he was going to die. My brother just fainted.

Later, my father and I both pretended that we had acted rationally and quickly, like real men would. My brother didn't die from blood loss or gangrene. We bandaged him up pretty well once we got ourselves together. But he couldn't serve in the war when it came around a couple years later, missing his arm below the elbow, so he took the axe again and up it into his own skull. He didn't do it right. When I found him, he wasn't dead yet. He wasn't dead when I got my mother. He was almost dead after my dad yanked the axe out with all force. He was dead after my dad buried the axe in my brother's head again, as if he was putting down a lame horse.

My father didn't take that too well, and later buried the axe in his head as well. He did do it right. I ran off and managed to make the officers believe that I was 18 and not 16. I don't know what happened to my mother. She may have well taken the axe too.

I work in the torpedo room. I'm not an engineer or a helmsman or a cook. My job is to put the torpedo in and pull the lever. My job is to do the killing.

Today, we've seen some fishing boats. Captain wants to sink them, but, the boats are too small for a torpedo, so we use the surface gun. I go to help. We surface, climb out, load the gun, shoot, miss, shoot and destroy one. There's three of us on the gun, one to aim, one to load, one to shoot. I aim. The shell is put in. The firing mechanism is a spring-loaded flint. It's pulled back and let go. The shot doesn't go off. Misfire. The chamber is opened and the shell is taken out. It explodes. I feel nothing but I find myself on the deck, looking down at the sea. I can't feel my arms.

The ship is passing through where we destroyed the first boat. I can see planks of wood. I see a single arm, belonging to a Japanese fisher, floating in the water.

I remember the axe. It was flimsy and the handle was beginning to rot. I often felt that the blade could fall of at any moment.

I feel nothing, really.

[Cult_of_the_Raven]

It seems that people know very little about Iowa. interesting.

[Elvaris]

Well, it's not exactly ideal, but I'm running out of time.
a boxer and a Mississippi town

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Ghosts of the Past
Marjorie Scott looked up from her coffee as the sound of a car pulling into the diner's parking lot interrupted the steady clatter of ice pellets on the roof. A tall, lean man pulled his not-up-to-the-job trench coat over his head, climbed out of the car, and hustled his way through the front door.

"I swear, the whole point of moving south was to get away from nights like this," he said, shaking the ice from his coat.

"Well, I guess you didn't move far enough south," she smiled. "Can I get you some coffee?"

"Oh god, yes. I'd kill for some good coffee. And I did move far enough south... this time, but the college buddies still drag me north once a year."

"Oh? Which school?"

"Memphis. It sounded far enough south growing up in Ohio."

"So, you kept moving south?"

"Key Biscayne. I didn't feel like learning Spanish."

Marjorie smiled as she poured him a cup of coffee. "Sounds nicer than here," she said, "but then most places sound nicer than here."

He nursed his cup, holding on with both hands. "No offense, but where's here? I couldn't really see the signs as I was pulling off the highway."

"You are in picturesque Sherman, Mississippi. Home of... well... not much. You know, I can bring you a second cup if you want to keep that one as a hand warmer."

"No, ma'am, this one will do just fine," he said over the cup. "You don't sound happy to be here."

"I am... I'm just... I feel a little left out at times when I meet people who've done more with their lives than I have."

"Believe me, there are worse things than living in a small town. There have been times when I'd have been thrilled to be in a quiet place like Sherman here."

"Sherman isn't always quiet, you know. We're on the road from Tupelo to Memphis so everyone crowds in here on the off chance Elvis might have once set foot in the building."

"Ah, yes. The Elvis obsession. How's he doing these days?"

"Still dead."

"Shh... Don't say that too loud. It's bad for business."

"You're the only one here, I don't think I'm hurting the diner too badly."

"Well, I still don't have a menu..."

"Huh? Oh god, I'm so sorry. Here... Let me go make sure the grills are running."

With that Marjorie slid a menu across the counter and ran to the kitchen. The stranger sat reading the menu still cradling his mug in both hands.

"Okay, Frank's just making his own dinner, what can I get you?"

"Onion burger with fries, please. What my cardiologist doesn't know can't hurt me, right?"

"Something like that... Order in please."

"You could leave, you know."

Marjorie turned to see the stranger regarding her over the coffee cup.

He continued, "You're young, you could see more of the world if you wanted to."

"I couldn't... Frank needs me here."

"I'd imagine he'd find a new waitress eventually. I'm sorry. It's probably none of my business, but you don't have to feel left out."

"I guess I'm just not up to that kind of change any more. And who are you to decide what I should do with my life?"

"Jack Buckham, pleasure to meet you."

"Charmed," Marjorie said, though it was clear from her tone of voice she wasn't.

"I wasn't making any demands, I was just suggesting that the best time to make a change is when you're sure you can't."

"And what would you know about change, Jack Buckham?"

"Well, I was a professional boxer once. And unlike most boxers, I won my last fight."

"I suppose I should ask what happened. To be polite."

Jack smiled and sighed. Conversation was going to be up to him for a while, so he told his story, "When I went to college, I was considered too small to play football, so I tried wrestling for a while, but I really got involved with boxing. I spent a lot of time working out and sparring in the gym, even got a few fights here and there between classes. When I graduated, I didn't get much in the way of job offers, so I figured I had nothing to lose and went pro. I fought pretty well, paid some dues, won some fights, and was really starting to get noticed. Bigger fights, better opponents, bigger venues. I was on my way up."

Jack paused to take a sip of coffee, "Then it happened. I was in London as an under card to a championship bout. I went out, had the fight of my life. Took the guy down in the second round, I thought it was the start of my career. So I had a beer, sat backstage and watched the middleweight champ, the guy I figured I'd be fighting some day."

"Gerald McClellan, The G-Man. Quick, strong... twice the fighter I was. This guy was amazing. Dropped the guy out of the ring in the first. Did it again in the eighth. He was just taking the guy apart. Then something changed. In the tenth, he dropped down to one knee. You could tell his head wasn't right. They counted him out, but that wasn't what was important as he collapsed in his corner. He didn't just lose the fight, he lost consciousness, he lost his sight, he lost his ability to walk."

"Here was the fighter I could be, the best I could hope for, being carried on a stretcher and taken to the hospital. They carried him right past me. I quit right then and there... Never set foot in the ring again. I flew home and found a job selling exercise equipment."

"I've seen change first hand, and I'd much rather see it accompanied by fear than regret."

"Are you saying I'm afraid of change?"

"Aren't we all? It's nothing to be ashamed of. I just don't want to see you waste your life over something that happened so long ago."


Marjorie stopped cold. "Who the hell are you?"


"Back at school, I was walking back from the gym one night. I heard a scuffle behind a building... When I went to check it out, I saw three guys beating up... well, you know what was going on. I ran in and tried to help."

"They told me someone rushed in and rescued me, but they never told me who."

"They wouldn't tell me your name. They wouldn't let me in the hospital. I watched the trials, but they still kept your name out of it. Nobody I asked would tell me who you were."

"So how did you find me now? After all this time."

"I checked the list of dropouts from the University from around that time. It took me a while to think of it... I'm not exactly the quickest thinker in the world."

"So now that you've found me, what? Am I supposed to bow at your feet?"

"I just... wanted to see how you were, to see if you were okay... To let you know you don't have to be afraid."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be this rude, but this is just too much to face... too much at once."

"I understand. It sounds like it's letting up out there. I should get going. It was nice to see you... under better circumstances."

"Wait, just a second."

Marjorie grabbed the meal Jack had ordered and slid it in a box. She came around the counter and handed it to him.

"I think my wallet's in the car, if you give me a minute I can..."

"Hush. This one's on me. I haven't had a chance to say it until now, but thank you."

"I should be coming back through here in a few days."

"You'll know where to find me."

[averagejoe]

Ironically enough, beginnings and endings are the hardest parts. Just work at it, joe.

'S about all I can do.

[Bryn]

Unless the contest was extended, this will be late, but...

983 words on a Deadly Phenomenon of Pern and a Herb.

I think I could have done better, but meh...

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Death of a Dragon Rider

The wind rushes past me as I swoop and soar through the sky, the beating of Ferdis's wings creating heavy thunderclaps in the air about me. The cold of between still lies in my bones, slowly vanishing as the sun beats down upon the scene below. Wide green fields stretch across the countryside, dotted occasionally by small farming villages. Ahead lies my destination, a farmhouse next to a small lake surrounded by trees.

At least, there were once trees. As I soar down towards the destination, I can already see the fires of the battle that is beginning there. Silvery tangles plummet from the cloudy skies to land among trees stripped of all vegetation, falling as I watch to be dissolved by swarming tendrils. Thread is falling on Pern, and I am here to stop it.

With a great roar, Ferdis, my dragon, pushes forwards towards the battle. Other dragons, silhouetted against the darkening skies, release enormous gouts of flame towards the trees, and soon I have joined them, my fire mingling with theirs to create a towering column of fire, a roaring inferno to consume the thread as it falls. With another beat of Ferdis's wings, I swoop down over the forest, leaving a trail of flaming devastation igniting the remainder of the ravaged trees. Clouds of smoke boil up from among the branches, and I squint, water droplets forming in my eyes, the acrid stench burning my nostrils.

Then, I am out of the smoke, soaring back up into the sky to look down on the scene of the devastation. I feel exhilarated, diving down again among the writhing tendrils to release further gouts of flame at the falling masses.

Nearby, I notice gardens, spread out from behind a country house previously hidden by the thick forest. It stands on a small island near the edge of the lake, a small wooden bridge crossing towards the shore. As I swoop towards it, I see a clump of Thread land on the bridge, burrowing a wide gap in the wood to land, a tangled mass, in the lake below. Another gout of fire from Ferdis, and the lake erupts into steam, while we swoop away low among the rows of herbs and spices. They flash past beneath me, and an odd detached part of my mind puts names to them: savory, rue, lavender. I smile to myself – it seems I haven't forgotten the old botany classes after all.

More plants pass beneath us; lemon grass, thread.

Wait, thread?

Then, Ferdis is breathing fire again, and the herbs and spices all ignite as flame spreads across: a burning deathtrap for the thread that falls about us. We lift back up into the air, breathing fire in all directions to ignite the clumps of thread that plummet down from the skies. Scalding heat fills the air and I begin to sweat slightly.

Ferdis tells me that he is feeling tired now, but I am enjoying the feeling of flying too much. One more pass, then we can go back I tell him, and we turn again, the sun shining off Ferdis's head as he extends his neck and pulls his wings back, more fire exploding outwards. The thread falls still.

Then, a wave of agony bursts over me, and I can see the tendrils of thread right in front of me. Ferdis rolls, and I realise the thread has landed right on top of us. I scream, while Ferdis gives a great roar, releasing a scalding blast of flame over himself, destroying the thread as it tries to burrow into him. We fall, a living meteor, me screaming in agony all the way down. Then, I feel a sickening crunch, and all is still.

[hr]
I awaken, a burning pain in one leg and a fierce agony in the other. The rest of my body hurts too, just not quite as much as my legs. I try to open my eyes, only to find one won't open, and hurts more when I try to do so.
“Over here!” shouts somebody, and I hear footsteps running towards me, thudding across the ground. In my one good eye I can see columns of smoke rising from the blackened spars of a small building. The country house? It seems likely.

“He's alive, just. Looks like he was one of the Riders. Hey, Mark! Get a stretcher over here!” The voice is gruff and loud, the last words especially so. I groan, and try to say something through my cracked and burned lips.

Another voice, female this time, starts talking to me. “It's okay, you're alright now. Everything's going to be fine” she says. I try again, this time managing a word. “Ferdis?” My voice hardly sounds like my own.

I hear mumbling from all around. “The dragon. It has to be the dragon.” says one, louder than the others, heralding a wave of 'ssh'-es from the other voices. “Your dragon?” asks the female voice. I nod weakly, and I hear a rustling, as if from somebody shaking their head. “It's dead. The fire killed it.”

Suddenly, anger fills me. Who were these people to disparage Ferdis as an 'it'? Perhaps they killed him! Ferdis wouldn't have killed himself. These people murdered my dragon!

I lash out, or at least try to. Instead, there is a loud cracking sound and my arm begins to hurt even more than my legs. Turning my heads to see the wound, I wince. A piece of bone is protruding from a long gash. I decide I'd be better off not looking at my leg.

Then, rough hands are lifting me up onto a stretcher, and I'm being carried off. Still angry, I gasp Ferdis's name. They were taking me away from my dragon...

“Ferdis...” I call, weakly, and then darkness draws in and I see no more.

[ZombieRockStar]

It seems that people know very little about Iowa. interesting.

I don't even know what the rest of the American midwest is like, much less Iowa. I guessed. A farm. Iowa has those, doesn't it? Killing chickens, since I know farms have those. Recruitment offices. Every place had those during the war. A screwed-up family, which you can find anywhere.

I realize the county in question probably didn't exist in the 40's. I took creative liberties.

Did I get anything totally 100% completely wrong?

[Cult_of_the_Raven]

not really. you probably could find a situation like that if you looked hard enough, but it would be pretty rare. except for, come to think of it, chickens would be hard to keep in the 40s. I have a hard time keeping predators out of my chicken pen here in the 2000s.

[ZombieRockStar]

I grew up on a chicken farm, so I know what that's like, sort of. (We moved off into the city when I was 5) But any farm would still keep them, especially during the depression since they are a cheap and readily available source of food and income.

As for the situation, of course it's unusual. This was totally last minute, no revision. I wrote whatever came to mind first.

[Bryn]

Same here with the last minute thing. It went something like this:
"What? The deadline was yesterday?", after which there was a bit of time reading Wikipedia on the Dragon Riders of Pern and then I pretty much made it up as I went along. That is why, for example, the dragon's name is a little inaccurate... and why its so short.

[Cult_of_the_Raven]

yeah, i wondered at that name thing, being an avid reader of pernese books. dragon names end in 'th'

[Bryn]

A fact that I only discovered after I'd posted the story.

Is there any other way it differs a lot from the original books? My memories of them are so hazy they may as well be nonexistent, so I'd be interested to know.

[Cult_of_the_Raven]

well, if you want me to pick the details, I'll tell you.
get ready for a nitpicking-

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other than the 'th' thing,
1) Between is capitalized.
2) nobody ever lived on a farmhouse, only safe in stone holds.
3) there weren't many trees, except in the south.
4) dragons flew to burn the thread really high in the air, specifically to avoid catching things on fire.
5) once thread touches the ground, flamethrower crews generally get it.
6) dragons generally went through a whole Fall without needing a break, so Ferdis wouldn't have complained of tiredness.

otherwise, I think it's great. It has nice syntax, good word choice, etc. the emotional responses were perfect, and strong enough to effect the reader.
- Raven

[Bryn]

Thanks

On the last point, the Wikipedia article on Dragons mentioned that green dragons and possibly blue dragons might work in shifts. Specifically...

They are extremely valuable in Threadfall because of their agility, but they lack the stamina to last an entire Fall and generally fly in two or three shifts.

They are nearly as agile as greens, but unlike the greens, they often have enough stamina to last for an entire Threadfall.

Keyword being 'often'.

On the other hand, I broke so much else that what does it matter if one more thing is inaccurate.

[averagejoe]

Same here with the last minute thing. It went something like this:
"What? The deadline was yesterday?", after which there was a bit of time reading Wikipedia on the Dragon Riders of Pern and then I pretty much made it up as I went along. That is why, for example, the dragon's name is a little inaccurate... and why its so short.

I personally don't mind, especially since I made a similar mistake, plus you were still rushed on it, so you're unlikely to get an unfair advantage with the extra time. Heck, even mine was last minute, I just thought, for some reason, that the deadline was a day earlier than it was.

[Cult_of_the_Raven]

So what color was Ferdis? bronze? brown? blue?

[Bryn]

I don't think I decided, actually. Probably blue, since he was both male and he complained of tiredness.

Thanks for letting me enter anyway...

[Cult_of_the_Raven]

well you did really good, considering.

[Fat Daddy]

Sorry that I've been away for a few days. The new baby and the toddler are a handful. I don't think I've slept in 5 days. Anyway enough whining and back to the contest...

Round 2 is closed. I will PM the judges and try to get this round judged so we can get the final round completed.

Stay tuned...

[Dispozition]

Ummm...Is it just me or did Tanon Sharpe, VT and TheSilverKnight not post stories?

EDIT: Ok...Looking back, Tanon withdrew...But VT and SliverKnigh wanted extensions...What's gonna happen with them?

[The Vorpal Tribble]

Probably just be dropped. Wish I could have had time to enter this time round, but just been a busy last couple weeks.