Settlement

By Alex Humva:

He looked at the cold waters in front of him, then at the forest behind him. All around him, men and women were hauling materials; occasionally a small child would run back and forth, delivering messages. He himself held a crate of tools in his hands, but he allowed himself a minute or two of rest and recollection. It wasn't every day you went to a new land, after all. It was a new life, a new world for him to explore. An entire ocean rested between him and his old home now. It truly was something to marvel at, and something to fear at the same time.

Sighing, he carried the crate to a nearby pile of them, looking at the men sitting nearby playing a game of dice. Even so far out here, the work was being divided up amongst the unlucky. Some things would never change, even so far away. He put his crate down in a neat fashion and pried it open, revealing a number of axes. Pulling one out, he glanced at the group further away in the forest and went to join them. It took him some time but he finally arrived, lending his help to the men cutting down wood. The fall was here, and if they couldn't build shelter quickly then they'd all freeze in this new and unknown land. It was a tedious and hard job, but someone had to do it, and he was among one of the strongest youths in the party.

That night there were many celebrations, several fires roaring and the best of the salted meat roasted and eaten. The ale brought along was broken out and all were happy to have made the great journey safely. They were a tight band, seventy six heads if you included the three natives they had come across in the lands to the far north they passed while on the voyage. It was a marvelous party, and he enjoyed himself thoroughly throughout it. When it had all died down and many were asleep, he stayed up, gazing at the sky. Even though they had traveled thousands of miles, the stars still were the same. It was a strange thing that he doubted he'd ever understand.

Someone came from behind, a young woman. He smiled and they embraced, then looked at the stars together. The months ahead would test the mettle of all involved; society itself would have to be rebuilt. Houses would be erected, wells dug, hunting grounds established. Perhaps there would be combat with the natives; perhaps a famine would strike. Regardless, he knew he had to keep his spirits up. The gods would watch over them, he was sure. In his eyes he could see a prosperous future, thousands living in this Newfound land. There'd be children in the streets, bakers, farmers, blacksmiths, cities...

And so, with that, he returned to the camp and slept. Slept and waited for what tomorrow would bring.


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by By Caleb/Cederak:

Serenity

This galaxy is such a tranquil place if you should find the right places. Amid explosions full of radiation, stars consuming entire planets, the constant shift of celestial bodies moving about, peace is rare. Mankind's relationship with the stars has always been with a sense of terrifying adventure, and astronauts the cowboys of its blinding dark frontier.

Out here, on the planet CVM-783-09, better known as Verge, we are the cowboys. This settlement, out on the very edge of human-controlled space is a colony experiment to discover more about lands so foreign to the Earth that cradled us in our youth. High above Verge, an aura of bright emerald and cobalt shades are drawn in wisps, blurring out the star in the sky. It is an adolescent sun, soon to conclude its violent years, developing into a mature piece of the system. It is much like humanity in this way.

The settlement is a network of chrome metal structures that one might call a village back on Earth. Given that private companies spent billions to terraform Verge long before any scientific "egg heads" like myself came to live here, we and our children are free to breathe the air, climb alien trees, and explore caverns seemingly untouched by sentient life. Even on Verge, there are traces of chaos all around - reminders that entropy is a constantly looming reaper, using time as its greatest resource.

Verge is a strange land, carefully situated to support life. All the conditions were just right to make our arrival relatively simple. We live in harmony with the local flora and fauna - living off the land and tending to it as well. As I stare skyward from my observatory, I am still reminded of how fortunate we are. Verge is a rarity in a universe of volatile change, and tranquility more anomalous than fresh water.

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By Nate/GSR:

Their city began as a dream.

They were starving things, struggling to survive past a day, foraging for whatever scraps of food they could find and forcing down dirt when there was none to be found.

The families huddled together in a shared home, desperate to preserve heat, each one of them unspeakably, inevitably aware that their lives could be snuffed out at any instant. 

When one crested the cliffside and saw the field of grain stretching out before him, he could not comprehend what he was seeing.  He stepped onto it hesitantly at first, poking and prodding, unable to grasp the truth of the land before him.  And then, almost experimentally, he brought a strand of wheat to his mouth, and he knew then that they were saved.

They followed him in a row, the ill or the weak left behind not out of cruelty but out of pragmatism; there was no mistaking that only those of them in good health would survive the trip.  Their march was grim and unrelenting, passing through pitch-black caves of stale air and across barren expanses where no living thing could survive.  At times they would cross some bit of plant that had been carried by the wind to this desolate place and fell upon it as one, but never did they stop.

At sundown they reached the top of the cliff along with their brother and knew what he knew: that they were saved.

They could not weep with joy, or embrace their family; there was far too much to be done.  Their lives were in their hands more than they ever had before.  Soon they had scattered to the four winds, looking for any material that could build them a new home.  Some died before returning; they did not care.  The dream lived on.

Night and day made no difference; they ate as they worked, taking strength from the very land that would become their home.  They carried out their work without the slightest complaint; they had been given a chance to survive, and they would take it.  Already their old village was a distant memory, and even thoughts of their abandoned brothers and sisters faded as mothers began to grow heavy with child once more.

At long last, they had a home.

Alice flipped on the light and shrugged the travel bag from her shoulders; Dave followed her with the suitcases, and Jen and Gail came bounding in after them.  “Mom, when’s dinner?” Gail called.

Alice groaned.  “Mom’s been driving all day, Gal-gal, and we’ve got a lot to unpack.  Dinner’s gonna be another hour, get yourself something to eat if you’re hungry.”

Gail nodded and dashed off to the kitchen.  Dave shot her a grin as they headed into the bedroom and started piling the suitcases onto the bed.  “Tired?” he asked.

Gail’s voice didn’t give her a chance to answer.  “Mom! There’re ants in the breadbox!”

She sighed and gave her husband a look of eternal suffering.  “Who, me?”

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By By Nick Silverpen:

Unsettled Regret


“So that’s it? You think we’re just going to shake hands... and part ways?”

“No,” `his partner said as they stood on the hill. One of them was going to join the caravan party on the march, while the other back to the village. The one back to the village was not happy to see his friend leave- to leave him here, to just abandon everything they had built? It didn’t seem right. “Obviously the debt has not been settled. But we will meet again, to finalize this. Not everything gets paid in full up front, brother. Sometimes you have to wait for the full circle to come along to get the payoff.”

And with that, the brother was gone. Skating his way out of that labor, that cost, yet again... and he had just let him. Always this one, always him having to wait for it, while his brother was able to escape, to be free. He wanted nothing but to be free, from the shackles he sometimes felt this village held. He had done it, once; he had stood on that very same hill, determined to run away, but the shackles kept him there. This brother only needed a break in order to find happiness; but the other, the one who joined the caravan, always felt the need to screw someone over, to disrupt the still waters... Why? Why, for mighty heaven’s sake, could he not ever see it through?

This brother stalked back to the village that held him back. This was a life he had built, and he could not see himself abandoning it all like that cheat had. He felt whole and complete here, but as he walked through the streets alone, without his brother, he felt that he was still owed something. He slumped on a porch of someone he didn’t know, looking out at the world, his world. They may have all been content, but he didn’t feel that way, not complacent with this world. He wanted more, but he wasn’t sure what “more” meant.

So restlessness plagued him, as his watched the children playing. Ache and envy and lust for his brother’s fate, as he slouched on the porch, the awning casting an oppressing shadow onto him; he would never make his peace here. As much as he loathed those who were content to live and die here, he was mixed with the confusion as he wondered what he truly wanted.

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By Chro/Ben:

Settlers of Disaster:

The woman trudged up the snowy incline, a settler of disaster on her way home. The canvas satchel thudded against her back, though numb as she was with cold, it did not bother her.

An owl cried out amongst the snowflakes. She stopped and turned her back to the wind, glaring towards the chilled breeze. The owl called again. She turned in a circle slowly, searching for the source of the hooting sound.

No sign. She began to walk again. Up the incline, then down again, meandering purposefully through the snow. The colony was barely visible, obscured as it was by the white sheet that Nature had laid; merely a few small huts clinging to the white plain.

This colony was aptly named Disaster; monikers like Safety and Fortitude only seemed to encourage strife. This was the way things were, as they knew it.

They had come here many months ago, looking for fertile land after their last several plots had run dry and frozen. But Nature had forsaken them, as they now knew, for each land to which they ventured soon became crushed by drought, seared by fires of the forest, or cocooned in winter’s harshness. The people of Disaster were hardy farmers, tough, and they knew how to survive this pain, for a time. Sooner or later they knew that something had to change; Disaster would hold no more, and a new settlement would be needed. They would move on, they would adapt.

- - -

The woman trudged up the grassy incline, a settler of disaster moving on. The canvas satchel thudded against her back, though joyous as she was with hope, it did not bother her.

A bluebird cried out amongst the raindrops. She stopped and smiled.

What the Tide Brought In

(Nick Silverpen: As for "What the tide brought in", I did a little epic work, at 441 words)


By Caleb/Cederak:

Tempest

It was mid-afternoon when the water began to churn violently, turning what had been a calm scene into a deafening cacophony of swishing and splashing. There were many objects caught in the waves, drowned and thrown to the surface, over and over again. The whirlpool was a machine, clutching anything it could grab and shifting it about like a puppeteer would manipulate a marionette. There was no escape from this powerful, unnatural force at work. Even above the liquid cyclone, there was only darkness. When the water was prepared to surrender its victims, it would. Unfortunately, that time had not yet come. Mighty sounds continued to accompany the unforgiving water, creating incessant booms and rattling shakes. This kind of storm had grown ancient and, when younger, had also been more temperate and quiet. With age came a brusque attitude that grew loud and cantankerous. The water had always been relentless, but it was only in recent years that such angry noises began to accompany it.

And then, as quickly as the unyielding agitation had begun, it settled into a peaceful serenity. The water's surface had become relatively still and the only sound that remained was that of a lone waterfall, coursing strongly downward as new contents entered the ephemeral sea. It was this waterfall that afforded the water its substance, pumping in gallons of liquid before it would be swept up and thrown about. The same was true for all of the items beneath the waves, dyed miserable, dark shades of cobalt, midnight, and the like. The icy cold water surrounded all and there was no life to be found in them. The calm before the storm finally subsided and the water began to shift once again. The afternoon was now approaching the evening, though the darkness remained impenetrable. This time the sounds became even more fierce and nasty, as though the water threatened to shred everything inside of it to pieces. Any hint of life in the water had been extinguished much earlier, but the waves crashed with an intensity that had no regard for life. Something that existed in the deep, deep dark was at work, electrified with the power to whirl the storm until it was satisfied with itself.

At last, the storm had concluded. A bright light bathed the entire scene in a glow, shining down on the damp prisoners released from the captivity of the waves. The darkness had been lifted and a young man stood over the objects, surveying them silently before reaching to scoop them up. And what had the Tide brought in, you might ask? It brought in the ability to lift stains from the articles in the wash. Because that's what Tide is marketed to do.

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By Tekulo:

Tides

The ship was often mentioned in lore. She was built under a full moon on an island that doesn’t exist. That is, the island is thought to be a myth. None have ever found any trace of its existence. Her name had been lost in an ancient tongue, eventually forgotten. It was said she was beautiful, though; beautiful blue sails that would glow in the light of shimmering stars, wood that had been smoothed and polished so well that it could be seen at night. Some say it ferried souls to the afterlife. Others claimed it was a chariot of the gods. 

Some versions of the story claimed the ship had a crazed captain. After many years of sailing, he dropped by on land for one night. He was so raptured with the world of land that when he returned to his ship he went mad. His crew no longer trusted him and they decided to pierce his heart with a silver dagger. After that the ship vanished almost as mysteriously as it was created.

Few had claimed to see her late at night, far off of the shore, the witnesses drawn to the sea by the moans of the betrayed captain. These stories always seemed to arise when the weather was clear when the stars were easily visible. It was a laughable prank, really. Nothing in the world could be so majestic, mysterious or magnificent. 

Now, under the full moon, I stand here on the beach. The wind murmurs gently in my ears. The stars look beautiful now, and there is enough light to see the waves that cause the sand to shimmer in the night. I hold in my hand a small, tarnished dagger I had found half buried. Maybe the world was always majestic, mysterious and magnificent. Maybe sometimes all you need to do is wait for the tides to bring something in.

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By Zarayna/Nick:

The Knife

“I found this on the beach,” the man said, twirling the piece of wood carelessly in his hand. The woman he was speaking to looked at it weirdly.

“You’re telling me that’s wood?” she asked skeptically, looking at the dark thing, shaped almost like a twisted knife. The man shrugged.

“Well it’s not metal, or plastic. What else could it be?” he said. “Anyways, I like it.”

“I know you like it. Ever since the last shipwreck you’ve liked every single piece of wreckage you could find. Did you like the last piece of the ship that washed in? Or the logs you shoved off the cliff so we couldn’t light the fire?” Her voice was suddenly angry, and he almost started.

“We don’t own those cliffs, nor do we own the waters, or the ships. Not our duty.”

“Those people died at sea because of what you did! And you come here with this knife that you claim is a piece of driftwood. Are you serious?”

The man smiled suddenly.

“Yes. I’m very serious. I’m serious about money, We’ve lived near this accursed cliff for twenty years, scraping a living out of the soil, with this goldmine right within reach. But you always lit the fire. Always. And I saw each ship ome in. Every bit of riches passing through while we remained poor!” His voice had risen to a shout almost, and the woman started back for a moment.

“Yes, because I’m not a bandit! Those riches belong to the ships, not to us! I’m not a murderer, but… But you are.” Her last words came out with a sob, and she glared accusingly through her tears at her husband.

“But you’ve seen some of the people who pass by! They’re either so rich as to think us as bugs or nothing more than pirates! They owed us for their sins!” the man snapped back, the wood clenched in his hands.

“You don’t even know them!” his wife replied with equal ferocity. “You never met them, you never learned their life, you, you can’t even bear a condemnation without trying to prattle your way out of it like a coward!”

The man stepped forwards threateningly, reaching out to grab her arm, hard.

“Say that again about me!”

“I will then!” his wife snapped, slapping him violently across the face and shoving him backwards.

“You’re a braggart and a coward, and fool and a murderer!” she screamed, fists clenched. He flew forwards, ducking her first blow and slamming her against the wall of their house. Her shocked, but still defiant eyes glared at him.

“Nothing more than a woman-killer,” she gasped, even as he let her limp body collapse to the ground, the so-called piece of wood embedded in it. Shaking with sudden horror, he drew it out, looking at the strangely sharp black blade, coated in blood.

The tide had brought it in, and him as well.

He stared down at the body of his dead wife, aversion and guilt flowing through him.

Then his own body too slumped, sprawled across his wife’s, the black knife embedded in its heart.

“I found this on the beach,” the man said, twirling the piece of wood carelessly in his hand. The woman he was speaking to looked at it weirdly.

“You’re telling me that’s wood?” she asked skeptically, looking at the dark thing, shaped almost like a twisted knife. The man shrugged.

“Well it’s not metal, or plastic. What else could it be?” he said. “Anyways, I like it.”

“I know you like it. Ever since the last shipwreck you’ve liked every single piece of wreckage you could find. Did you like the last piece of the ship that washed in? Or the logs you shoved off the cliff so we couldn’t light the fire?” Her voice was suddenly angry, and he almost started.

“We don’t own those cliffs, nor do we own the waters, or the ships. Not our duty.”

“Those people died at sea because of what you did! And you come here with this knife that you claim is a piece of driftwood. Are you serious?”

The man smiled suddenly.

“Yes. I’m very serious. I’m serious about money, We’ve lived near this accursed cliff for twenty years, scraping a living out of the soil, with this goldmine right within reach. But you always lit the fire. Always. And I saw each ship ome in. Every bit of riches passing through while we remained poor!” His voice had risen to a shout almost, and the woman started back for a moment.

“Yes, because I’m not a bandit! Those riches belong to the ships, not to us! I’m not a murderer, but… But you are.” Her last words came out with a sob, and she glared accusingly through her tears at her husband.

“But you’ve seen some of the people who pass by! They’re either so rich as to think us as bugs or nothing more than pirates! They owed us for their sins!” the man snapped back, the wood clenched in his hands.

“You don’t even know them!” his wife replied with equal ferocity. “You never met them, you never learned their life, you, you can’t even bear a condemnation without trying to prattle your way out of it like a coward!”

The man stepped forwards threateningly, reaching out to grab her arm, hard.

“Say that again about me!”

“I will then!” his wife snapped, slapping him violently across the face and shoving him backwards.

“You’re a braggart and a coward, and fool and a murderer!” she screamed, fists clenched. He flew forwards, ducking her first blow and slamming her against the wall of their house. Her shocked, but still defiant eyes glared at him.

“Nothing more than a woman-killer,” she gasped, even as he let her limp body collapse to the ground, the so-called piece of wood embedded in it. Shaking with sudden horror, he drew it out, looking at the strangely sharp black blade, coated in blood.

The tide had brought it in, and him as well.

He stared down at the body of his dead wife, aversion and guilt flowing through him.

Then his own body too slumped, sprawled across his wife’s, the black knife embedded in its heart.

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By Aimee/Aderia:

She went to the beach one fine day

To enjoy the sea and the spray

There was a penguin instead

She hugged it and said

“It’s so cute! Let’s keep it! Hooray!”

Her mom said to set the bird free

To Antartica, across the sea

The girl sat and cried

Her mother just sighed

Because they could never agree

Her dad had a different thought

And maybe they’d give it a shot

Give the bird to the zoo

Where they could visit it too

Conveniently, Dad’s name was Scott

I can’t keep rhythm and rhyme

I’ve definitely run out of time

The bird went to the zoo

It caught the bird flu

Then it died.

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By John/Kraggh:

Nixie Lands on an Island

Nixie drifted up on the blue, blue shores of some distant land.  Her raft was ruined, and her thick, curly hair in her face.  She was unconscious and incapable of really noticing that she had come to a stop.  It was a while before she woke up.  The calm, peaceful sun beat down upon her.  She peered out at the world from behind her dark brown eyes, not really feeling anything, other than a deep desire to feel the sun as a gift of comfort and not as a reminder of her dryness and her lack of drink.

She got up.  Looked around.  Shook her head.

There was nothing but the green of tropical trees, the light tan of the beaches, and the aquamarine color of the see.  It was beautiful, like some sort of paradise.  She was alive.

Yet for not, all she could do was roll off of the raft and sit there, her bottom in the sand, her hands on her lap as she looked out into the vast infinity of the see.  She would need food and water soon, but before that she just needed to ponder what she had lost.

No, she hadn't lost anything.  Her friends and her younger brother were still out there, just out of reach.  She new she would see them someday.  it was just a matter of having faith and starting to search.

Somewhere across the waters...

She got up and grabbed her bag from the top of the raft.  Its strap that was supposed to hoist around her shoulder was broken, so she used it as a rope and just dragged it across the sand.  It formed a line, and the line disappeared into the treed.

She had managed to spot without much difficulty the highest point on the island.  It was a large rock outcropping, like a spine coming out of the earth.  Along the way, she found strange new fruits and gave them a try, risking her life on the hope that they weren't poison.  She tried their bruit orange and yellow and green juices and was refurbished.

Ah, that was so much better.  It wasn't enough to lighten up her head quite yet, though, so she decided she would make camp.

That wasn't so difficult, since the leaves on this island were huge.  In fact, some of them reached eleven feet across, by her guestimate, since they were about twice her length.  It would be easy to make a tent out of them.  But not here in the forest.  No, she picked a few, rolled them up, and set them out on the beach and set up a tend there.  There would be no bugs and no creepy things to crawl over her while she slept.

The next day, she ate some more and gathered up food, and then she went back to the tall rock she saw.  It took a bit of climbing, and her grip was only so strong, but she wanted to give it a try.  She saw the jagged face of the rock through the trees and ran up to it, then looked for a foothold.  She then, through force of determination, found a way up, and endurance came to her through the form of a continued sense of wonder.  Once she was halfway up, she saw the world around her in an outstanding beauty.  The bright blue area where the deep see came up to the sandy beach was beautiful.  The island wasn't that large, but she couldn't gather its exact size until she got to the top of the rock that afternoon.  She stood there, on a narrow pathway, able to look southease and northwest of the aisle, out upon the surrounding isle.  It was about five miles across.

"Hello?" she cried out.  "Is anyone here?"

No answer.

"HELLOOOOO?"

There looked to be no sort of settlement on the island.  She figured she would leave, then.  it wasn't worth staying if there was nobody here to help her.  It was best to just pack up fruits onto the raft.  She climbed down the rock to get back to the raft.

"Hey, wait," said a voice.

She looked around and saw a golden bug on the rock, about the size of the palm of her hand.  It had eight legs along a segmented body, and then a front area like a centaur, which had pincers for arms and these two beady eyes on the ends of stalks, which swiveled about comically.  He looked like a scorpion or a crab of some sort.

"Hello, who are you?" she asked.

"I'm the only person on this island," said the bug person.

"But you're a bug," said Nixie.

"A bug person," said the bug person.  "What's a matter.  Haven't you ever seen a dichester before?"

"Have you ever seen a human before?" asked Nixie.

"Come to think of it, I have no idea what you are," said the bug-person-dichester.

"Well I'm leaving this island," she said.

"I'm coming with you," said the dichester.  "And my name is Jetty."

"Nice to meet you, Jetty.  My name is Nixie.  And yes, you can come with me, but I'm leaving this island."

"I know.  I figured that you came on a raft, and I've been lonely for a while now."

That evening, Nixie sad under the tent with a fire started to keep them warm and cook some fish that she caught, while she recorded her thoughts into her journal, the sole item she carried with her in her bag.  She bit into a golden apple, and its juice dripped onto the pages, right on top of her brother's name.  Then she stopped and contemplated it all.  Where she was right now, the encounter she had with Jetty, and the leap of faith she was taking by setting her raft out onto the open ocean again.

She came out of her tent and called out Jetty's name.  He came scurrying over, leaving little dots for tracks behind him.  They ate what food was left, but it was a quick meal.  She wanted to drift into the night time and make as much use of the cool moonlight air as possible.

Jetty got onto the recrafted raft while Nixie got out on back and pushed it into the ocean.  After paddling along for a while, cutting her knee on a piece of coral, she pulled herself on and let herself dry off, putting herself at a distance from her bag so that she didn't get her journal wet.

And so they went off with the stars in the sky, ready to discover another of the many islands out there, hopefully one that had friends and support.  And when they looked out, there were many stars, and they were reflected upon the water so that the division between the heavens and the waters was impossible to make, and it was all one swirling cosmos.

Nixie has seen this before, but this was during a vision where she was given sight over the entire universe, and she knew everything, and she knew where she was.  She still wondered if that wasn't a dream, if it wasn't for how she had mysteriously came to a paradise once it was over.  She could only wish that the same force was watching over her still, and she rolled onto her back and slept, with her new companion using her hair as a bed.  It was a weird world out there, but it was also beautiful.

Throne

By John/55555:

The throne dominated the wide, sloped room, as it had once dominated these wide lands. Even though the chamber had long ago fallen in to ruin, it's crumbling echoing the slow descent of the empire, it was still wrapped in a cold aura of power. Beams of clean sunlight intruded on the dark stillness, and highlighted the dust that filled the musty air. The boys footsteps were nearly silent, his bare feet walking carefully over the broken tiles.

He stayed near the walls, as though hiding from and ancient, half-blind guardian. It was as if staying near the shadows was his one compromise to his fear. If he had listened to the weak side of his heart he never would have come this far.

He approached the throne itself, unlike the rest of the building, it was not overgrown with vegetation, nor did the shafts of light pierce its darkness so readily. It loomed and brooded in shadow, an inanimate testament to the ancient days, when dragons blotted out the sun and the caves echoed with the hammers of goblins and the mailed feet of dwarves.

The boy had come from a land far away, which, in those days, had been one of the most distant thralls of the throne. Because of this, lords who the throne wished to protect and hide were often sent there to live out their days, or work on projects that must not become known to the common people.

His grandfather had been one of these, and the boy had come to claim the prize that he had learned of from him.

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By Tekulo:

The Black Throne

There was once a king who ruled over a land that was filled with life.  The villages were always bustling with its townsfolk running from place to place.  The baker’s shop opened at the crack of dawn and the pub at sunset.  Trees towered over the land creating a sea of forests.  Occasionally a bear or a deer would trot along and spook some villagers, but life was, for the most part, peaceful.

Despite the country’s abundance of life, however, there was one who was without this blessing.  Yes, the king and queen had tried many times to have a child, but to no avail.  What would they do?  The king would not be able to rule forever, and there were no other blood relatives to take the throne when he passed.  Yes, it was a terrible thought; a kingdom without a king to rule. 

One morning when the queen had risen for breakfast she heard the most beautiful song coming from the courtyard.  Wiping her face daintily with her napkin, she excused herself and took a step outside.  She looked ‘round and ‘round, but could not find the source of the beautiful music she had heard.  Finally, when the music began to flow again, she traced the melody back to a fine bronze bird that lifted its head to the sky.

“I know of your plight,” the bird sang, “And I know a good cure just for you.  For you see, to have a son, you must pluck a flower from the eldest of trees, but beware for the rest will have none!”

The queen called upon her royal servants, demanding them to bring a flower that matched the description of the bird’s song.  The men searched high and low through the ever-vast forest and hope was beginning to dwindle.  But at last they found what they believed to be the eldest tree.  They found a small bud beginning to blossom and plucked it from where it grew.  The bark turned black, but the men did not notice for they shouted “Huzzah!” and the queen was indeed pleased.

She ate the flower in a stew and a year later a beautiful baby boy was born.  He did grow into a handsome man, however the kingdom had turned pitched black.  The flower, you see, was the heart of the land.  Now the streets were barren, the shops were closed and the throne itself turned black.

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By Eli/The Otter:

Throne

One step. Two steps. The water drips near me as I walk through this tunnel, my cold, clammy hands clasping my rifle with all the strength that I, in my agitation, could muster.

Step. Step. The water drips. A new sound, near me, to my right. I turn to the side, bringing up the automatic rifle, the laser sight attached to it pointing out into the darkness. It stops, leaving a small bead of light on something as I crouch down, moving slightly behind a pillar near me.

I hear breathing. I hear my own, and I hear the breathing of someone...or something else. It’s watching, just as I’m watching it. I hear the clack of a automatic weapon’s bolt, and I frown.

Human.

The worst kind of animal.

Regardless of who it is, my finger spasms, a bullet flying down at my enemy, making a quieter sound than normal, due to the suppressor I have attached. A quick crunch-splat, a thump as the body hits the floor, and I thumb the safety of my rifle and move on.

Step. Step. The water drips, as I continue to walk along, my wary eyes constantly flitting about me, checking every dark corner in the tunnel, every last small amount of space where somebody or something could hide, watching me.

I smile, knowing, now, that I was safe.

Step. Step. The water drips. The hard stone floor of my tunnel turns to soft dirt, my boots leaving small imprints in it as I walk along. Again, I hear something moving, and quickly, I bring up my rifle. A small dog passes by me from a side tunnel, and I frown. I press up against the wall of my tunnel, next to the entrance to the side tunnel and wait.

Drip. Drip. I take a step, my gun levelled, and I open fire. My magazine runs out, and I drop it down, loading another, and I finish the job. They didn’t even have time to fight back, let alone time to cry out.

Step. Step. The blood drips around me as I walk back to my tunnel, moving along, ever alert. I hear breathing, and I fire. Nobody can sneak up on me.

I refuse to allow it.

Step. Step. The blood drips around me, as I continue to enforce my rule from this tunnel, my tunnel. Step. Step. The water drips to the floor as I walk through my lengthy throne room.

Step. Step. The blood drips from my bayonet, another challenger for my throne, my tunnel, falling to my skill. Step. Step. The water drips from a leaky pipe, carrying a rancid smell with it as I continue along. My radio beeps, telling me that I’m not far, now.

Step.

Step.

The blood drips.

Another sacrifice to my strength.

Step.

Step.

The water drips.

It tells me that I keep getting closer.

Step.

Step.

The blood drips.

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

By Z'Tomana:

The throne was ugly. Flat slabs of stone that had been laid close to each other, joined by whatever device the stoneworkers had implemented. Grey, rough, unpolished stone cut at right angles with no curves to ease your body into. The guard carefully watched at the townspeople lifted the throne with ropes onto a wooden stage, also rough and unstained and (in some areas) with bark still attached to the planks. The whole thing was heavy with the scent of pine. You probably couldn’t walk across it barefoot without losing a toe or two from infection by splinter. The throne was placed in the middle of the dais on a large rock that extended beneath the platform and into the ground. The ropes were yanked from underneath just as the procession neared the town square.

“Hail the king!” someone cried, and everyone fell silent.

Before their eyes a middle aged man, ragged and limping, was herded into the square by a group of guardsmen. He stumbled, hobbled, and walked dazedly, but as soon as “Hail” had been cried he stood straight up, startled, began to walk towards the platform. He reached the base of the steps up, and hesitated.

A guard lashed out with a gauntleted fist and knocked the man down, kicking him until he scrambled up giving small sounds of pain as he tried to move gently across the wood to sit in the stone throne.

“Hail the man that would be king!” the head of the guard cried, taking a brand from one of his fellows and thrusting it beneath the platform. Within minutes the structure was licked from side to side by flames, and the man in the middle could be seen to be huddled on the throne, sweating profusely. Heavy with resin, the structure burned remarkably fast until all that remained was the scorched rock in the middle, the withered man whimpering from burns, hunger, and thirst.

“Hail, the man who is king! May the reign of the Throne of Fire be long!” The head guard called, dismissing the crowd to go silently home as their king was lowered from the ugly throne.

-----------

By Omar/Onarax:


The Epiphany

Alright let’s be honest here. The world sucks, the rules of it suck, and the people. Well don’t even get me started on the people. Yeah… I think you can gather already that I’m not a big fan of this world, I mean hell, who is. Wouldn't anyone choose the amazing world of fantasy? Where they could be a noble warrior setting the world free.

Or maybe they like science fiction, a daring rogue on a guest to defeat a galaxy eating monster and take down the empire. Hell, maybe they are the bloody emperor, I mean, they could be whatever right?

Of course, circumstances supposedly shove us in a place right? So emperor is out, but y’know  the beauty of that world? Well, in a world like that anyone could be the dashing rogue. All one needs is to try. Earn, Win, Steal, I don’t care, but find a way to get some money, and bam a new star ship is yours, and now you can set foot on your quest.

Point is, you can’t do that here, real life is in no way supportive of what you may need to do. After all say you do have superpowers in this world the thing is this world has no singular evil force. There’s nothing for the hero’s to challenge, all the darkness that exists in this world is in hearts of man.

I mean yeah we've got crooks, but they aren't some emperor ruling with an iron fist, or a reborn warrior fighting to take the land. There’s nothing, at most the hero may be able to stop a few, but that’s only if he can find out where and when the criminals are even committing the crime.

This world, well it just doesn't make for the best world for any heroes, it doesn't make for the best world for an adventure, cause it’s got no real villains. No household name striking fear into the hearts of even the lowliest of scum or the bravest of men.

There’s no antagonist, no person on top of this world.

Hmm…

Y’know that’s not such a bad idea, this world could use an antagonist. Someone to make this world their throne, their domain. Someone who everyone can see and say, “Stay away from him child.” Or, “Make sure you don’t get on his bad side.” Yeah a real enemy for them to quiver in fear of, someone who’s a real life boogie man needs to come here. He should be the kind of person that scary bed times stories are made up of. The only difference is, his stories are real but even more frightening.

I really do like this idea now that it’s been brought to light. Plus this antagonist would definitely have a starring role, after all every hero needs their villain. The villain even gets the perks, no constantly on the run. No hiding your identity from everyone. Nope the villain gets to be proactive and defeat the hero.

Yeah we need a villain, I could be the villain. I could own this world, make it my throne, while simultaneously making it interesting. After all who wouldn't want to live in a world where interesting things happen every day, I mean let’s be honest won’t be amazing when you live each life without knowing whether today is your last day?

I know I for one would love a world like that, in a world like that things happen, there’s not sitting around and hoping, nope you want to do something, you can just do it. No petition a politician, or speak to your boss. No you can make the difference in a world like that.

I’ll give my gift to the world, I’ll become the antagonist, I’ll kill all those necessary, I’ll make the world my throne, and then, well let’s just say then, things really will be fun…

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

By Will/Tolkien:


And Yet We Live

I went to the city of the gods, and found it empty, and despaired.

The wasted sand stretched on before my feet, noisome and dry, and the sword was in my hand again. The sword that I could not put aside. I could hear them. All those voices, whispering to me in the silence of the barren plain. The city was almost lost in the haze at my back: a ruin of spires and noble stones, tumbled and fallen and long, long dead. I turned for a moment to stare and sigh, but it was the same as before. A crumbled throne and a gilded grave for its makers. I would find no help there.

The sword was heavy...so heavy...and I was weak. Still, I gathered what remained of my strength and flung the sword away as I had a hundred times before. It flashed in the sunlight, and the blade flamed red with the blood it fed upon, the blood I had given to it in my madness. Away it twisted and the sand rose up to swallow it, and I ran again, stumbling down the dunes. Ran with all my hopeless energy. Ran and ran and ran, and my thoughts returned to the days before it had come to this. Those sunny days when I was free, before I had unsheathed the sword in anger and spilled the lifeblood of my enemies and avenged myself. Oh, the joy of it. The wrathful joy, to know that I had worked justice in the world, that my loved ones could rest at last in the cool earth, no longer to burn in endless unease. I had done it. I, with my own hands.

The blade was hot and did not need to be cleaned. It drank the blood and flickered…and then it thirsted for more. It was awakened, I found, and all the injustice of the world cried out for absolution. And there I stood, holding justice in my hands. I could not put it aside. The days grew dark as I took that burden upon myself. Long and dark and full of anguish, as the voices grew louder and the blood of judgment weighed upon me, until finally I could stand it no longer.

That was when I tried to lay down the sword, leave it sheathed and cooling in the temple-shade. I thought I had found peace. I had given it up. But it was not that simple. No, for the blade was in my hand again, demanding. I flung it down, yet raised it high once more. It was my duty, my burden now. I, a mortal, for the gods were dead, their thrones empty...and there was no one else.

So I walked through the world in search of escape and administered justice wherever I had to. But every blow struck was a mark against me, and every victory was ashes, and at last I returned to the old man in his hovel, who had shown me the sword and had wept when I stole it. Humbled I came to him and asked for his help, asked to be released from burden and the wailing of voices. But he shook his head:

“No power of yours could release you from this path. It will ask everything of you, everything that you have,” he said.

“Is there no escape then? You told me the gods were merciful in days past. Can the gods save me now?”

“The gods...it is true that only they could help you now. The sword is their tool. It was not a thing for you to take up. No mortal could withstand such a burden.”

“But there are many such things in the world, are there not?” I asked, desperate, “The tools of this world are those left by the gods...”

“This is true. Many things are left to us: the Scales of the Far Off City, where the ignoble dead are weighed and sent to the fire or interred in the endless, silent dark. The Ruling Crown which chooses the kings of men. Yes, these are the instruments of divine hands, but divine hands do not wield them now, and the world groans...”

I gritted my teeth. “Then how may I be free? Surely there must be a way. They say that the gods are dead, but is it true, old man? Are they truly gone?”

“I do not know,” he replied. “They are silent, still and silent. They do not speak to any man, not now. But I ask you: what drove you to take up the sword? Was it pride? Did you think yourself righteous? You, as guilty in your heart as the all rest? What gave you the right?”

“I had no right. I know that now.”

“Yet you chose this path. A path that only a god could walk...”

“But I am not a god.”

“No, you are not, and because of that this burden will be your undoing. You have lived by this sword, and by it you shall end.”

“I…I do not want to die.”

“None do.”

I staggered in the clutching sand, eyes straining, for the sun had gone down behind the dunes and the city. The light was all dying, and soon, so would I. The sword tugged heavily at my hand once more, its point tracing a line in the dust behind me. I tried to let it go, but it was useless now. My fingers clenched tighter around the grip. Soon, the final price would be asked of me. I, who had lived by this sword for so long. At least I could take solace that, when the end finally came for me, the sword would remain here, forever lost, and all the blood it drank would be lost with it. That burden was too great for any man to bear, and it had already cut short the happiness of my days.

Stars shone out clear and sharp in the sky ahead now, harsh silver points like eyes; the witnesses to my final end. They would look on, but they did not care. The city with all its thrones was empty. There was no help for me now. My steps slowed as I struggled up another dune. I did not think I would reach the top. I was so weak now, and my mouth was parched. If I had had any tears left, I would have wept...I do not want to die. Even here, even now.

The dune leveled out at its peak, and I found myself staring across the starlit expanse once more. I could go no farther, no farther for me. The tendons in my arm cramped, and the sword rose in spite of myself. This was the time. The blade was still warm as my fingers touched it, running along its cruel edge, but it did not cut me, not yet. The voices were crying out now, no longer whispers. A thousand voices screaming for justice. Let us rest! It must be made right! The wakeful dead were burning in some far off land beneath the heartless stars, and still they had no rest. No cool silence for the souls unavenged. I had tried to make it right. I had taken up the sword, but I was only a man, and I had no right to mete out the vengeance they needed. Now vengeance would be done upon me.

The sword-handle sank to its hilt in the dust, and the dust held it there, a long spike of steel. My breath caught in my throat. I could not resist. All the voices demanded it. All of them, screaming. Eyelids closed, and I prepared to fall forward, prepared for the end...

…and then my eyes snapped open again. The sword was still there, sharp and inviting, still waiting to drink up my lifeblood. The stars still flashed along it like silvery sparks, cold points stabbing out at me...but there was something else now. Another light, and it was not cold.

Red fire blossomed along the desert floor, and my eyes rose to follow it as I stood there, wavering upon the precipice of life and death. A tongue of flame moving from dune to dune. It approached, and the air shimmered with its heat as it came up the slope. The stars seemed to tremble and retreat before it, and the blade dissolved into gleaming crimson.

I fell to my knees, the sword-point at my throat, as the fire crested the dune before me and washed me with its searing breath, and stood with feet that burned the sand into glass, and looked with a face like the face of the lightning, and pierced me with eyes that blinded me and yet were clear. Its flaming hand closed around the handle of the sword, and it was no longer a sword. It was a scepter, and a fiery throne loomed beyond. The voices rose up to crescendo as I fell forward—

—and then they were silent.

I went to the city of the gods, and found it empty, and despaired.

But then I looked into the emptiness beyond and found a truth in my despair:

For we all deserve the sword, and yet we live.

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

By Caleb/Cederak:


Above All Others

Life changes slowly. Beyond the microscopic level, adaptation is a subtle process, played out over the courses of a hundred thousand lifetimes, picking apart the genetic pieces of what is advantageous and what is not. But sometimes there comes a situation where change does not come soon enough. When patience is trumped by ability, the opportunity to do spectacular things comes into play. If we cannot be handed the throne to the universe, we must climb to it. Dominance is often a cruel game, one of winners and losers. But to ascend to the top carries a new weight. You have displayed your abilities and made your power known. And some day, someone, somewhere, will wish to usurp you. The cycle of kings, once gods in their own time, must continue. For this is the nature of genetic perfection, to weed out the weak and let the strong be seated upon a pedestal of metaphorical royalty.

This raises the question as to what sort of reward comes from taking the throne. Ultimately, the reward is only a matter of survival. No victory can conquer death and even the most perfect genes must finally break down and die. The throne exists as a challenge, to pit brother against brother, perhaps even similarly made creatures born galaxies apart, dared to stomp the other out of existence. This is not a gilded throne of beauty, it is scarred and pitted and stained with the blood of all who could not attain it. The throne tests you every day, playing upon the most basic instinctive parts of the mind. It demands a show of power and sometimes that is precisely what it receives. For if you deny the throne, someone else will surely use you and your grave as a stepping stone toward it.