29 replies to this topic

[Short Stuff]

Im afraid I dont have time to write the final version Dauth, I regret to say.

So my POS cliff hanger will have to suffice :(

(Btw, My story is the second novel ive been working on for awhile )

[Ion Cannon!]

Wow smooder. Thats really nice! It actually reminds me a bit of a book I read a while ago, can't remember the name though.

[smooder]

Thanks Ion Cannon And a sig is a good idea

[Sgt. Nuker]

++Friends! Forum dwellers! Competitors! Lend me your attention!++

I come to you bearing a request that you all keep in the forefront of your minds. This is not a competition to see who can write the most plucky and eloquent E-Studios-based story. This is something different (yet not entirely completely). Humour does not need to be included, but one thing is suggested: that the story have a lasting memory. Great stories are not merely written. They're instead composed, changed, erased, re-written, re-submitted, signed in triplicate and finalized. Great stories have an epic beginning, a sumptuous middle and a definitive ending. These are elements that you should strive to include. Chose your words carefully as 1100 tend to disappear rather quickly.

Best of luck ladz (and any lasses that may appear)!

[Dauth]

As some of you may guess, I requested Nuker write a piece about this competition, since it would be unfair that I write one myself. This is to help get more people to join and also give some ideas on how to vote.

Now my story rewritten, this is my second draft.

Quote

Zophas was drawing water up from a well, the turgid water slowly pooling into the bucket, hauling it up, his midnight black skin shone in the morning light. It was a morning chore to feed the brahmin, but only a weekly problem to provide water. The double headed brahmin were a staple of Zophas' life, they provided food, milk, shelter and weaponry.

A bull that was coming to the end of its breeding life had been selected for sacrifice to the warrior spirit of the tribe, for the ceremony to succeed the horns must be painted with the wet earth from the burial grounds. Zophas could never see the point in such rituals, however his father held them in high regard, and as such he was obliged to help. An apprentice warrior, Mlakus by name was using a knife to bed down the final layer of earth when the bull moved, tipping Mlakus head first onto the floor. Instinctive action had made him lash out; the knife sliced a shallow wound into the right head. Maddened by the pain and confused by the proximity of humans, the bull gored Mlakus and charged away, blinded by blood in its half its eyes, the bull ploughed into Zophas' hut.

Some house repairs were easy, heavy material for walls was of little problem to Zophas, his strength as always more than adequate. The construction of a new roofing support was beyond his skill; however with summer rolling around, sleeping under the naked sky had its attractions.

Foraging for food to supplement his large appetite occupied most of Zophas' time, small lizards could be speared, while as the largest and fittest man in the tribe he was also charged with testing the edibility of any new food item found. Bitter berries as deep as the thunderous clouds had been discovered by some children, while not pleasant to eat, they did provide another source of liquid for emergencies, with the side effect of turning normally bright teeth, blood red.



The night drew round, bringing cool relief for the big man, in the evenings Zophas spent time learning the language of the hairy raiders, when uttered by men the syllables are harsh and brutal, but when manipulated by the raider women, they sent tingles down his spine. In the time of slaughter the mildly concussed bull was stabbed once by every spear in the tribe, the young men used this opportunity to bless themselves for battle. Zophas had never been initiated as a warrior. His father, who had served the tribe well in battle, was rewarded with never having to risk losing his son.

The animal was then butchered; the meat was buried in a small charcoal over and left overnight. As with any meal Zophas' appetite was voracious, he spent the evening talking with the warriors about the hairy raiders and their language; the warriors knew a few other words which they explained to him.



Screams broke the silence of the dawn, the charcoal over had been pillaged, the slow cooked meat was Zophas' favourite. Something fluttered in his peripheral vision, the singed red cloth of a raider's shirt still dirty with charcoal. Enraged he stormed off out of the village. Zophas followed the tracks to the raider camp, armed with nothing other than a scrap of cloth.

At the camp he found two men sitting by a fire with dried meat. One was poorly imitating Zophas' language and prayer to the warrior spirit.

Noting the signed skin and burnt hairs on the man's arm Zophas uttered the newly learnt word for meat. Both men turned and stared before the thief called him a stupid tribal. At this insult Zophas finally lost his temper, curling his hand into a fist and releasing the full power of his upper body, the unscientific blow threw the raider against the wall, his neck dangling at an awkward angle. Snatching the meat from the table Zophas ran.



On the way back to the village unbidden thoughts of apprehension occur, was he right to hit that man? Was it really our meat? As he approached the nominal edge of the village, one man detached himself from the group, a warrior; he threw his spear down.

A challenge! Zophas had never fought in his life, having never been initiated, he took the only sensible course; he fled.

Zophas travelled away from home, for many days he saw no one, sometimes a trail of dust would be seen in the distance, only to be left feeling alone when the dust once again settled.



One morning Zophas awoke, not to the usual sound of wind, but to that of a loud click. An unidentified voice spoke.

'You are in no direct danger, stand up slowly and turn around so that we may speak.'

Zophas did as instructed, turning he found a slight figure, holding a gun, while he'd never seen one; Zophas understood the concept of such weapons. The man continued.

'I am a bounty hunter, you can consider yourself lucky, you will be put to work for my lord, the Master of this land, St Gabriel'

As Zophas gathered his thoughts about his future, a slave alone and abandoned, the man's neck exploded in a cloud of blood.



Dropping to the floor throwing his hands over his head, Zophas cowered.

'Got him at last, you sir are a lucky man, that slaver has been wanted for months'

A smiling young man approached Zophas,

'You're a bit lost aren't you? I wouldn't worry everyone is out in the wastes of Old England.'

Zophas stood there shocked; the blood splatter grew cool as a breeze blew across his arms. The stranger continued

'I am part of a group of lost men, each of us for one reason or another is alone in the world, we have forged a community on the River Thames, let me take you there'

Without any other option, Zophas followed.



As Zophas and Martin approached the community of New Oxford, husks of buildings came into view, followed by some of the tallest building Zophas had ever seen. This wonder of technology, the peaceful friend, made out in the wastes, both called deeply to Zophas.



His companion smiled, and motioned him towards an impressive building.

Another, older man walked out of it, he stood upright in the evening sun before leaning down onto a cane, slung across his back was a large rifle.

'Welcome to New Oxford, Outworlder, I am Andrew, the Lieutenant here.'

1084 Words

Topic closed on time, (I do love that feature), I will be organising voting shortly.

My thanks to everyone who entered.

Edited by Dauth, 01 May 2008 - 07:33.