Creative Writing Contest Submissions

[John]

This thread is for contest submissions only. All questions or comments should be put here (http://www.role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=6898).

[ILYTH]

Okay, didn't think I'd enter this but meh, I was bored so I knocked something out. It's only short but it gets to the point. It's mature so be careful reading it kiddies. her is my birthday submission

For he's a jolly good fellow
By The Trickster


Life, there isn’t much to it once you’ve had a bit of time to practice. You eat, you sleep, you breathe, if your lucky you get to love and laugh along with these basic needs. On top of that there really isn’t that much more to it, work, meaningless days spent on a couch yet they all contribute to a great tapestry of being, a tapestry that I found my thread being slowly pulled from. It all kind of started back just before I turned eighteen, the big one eight, adulthood for the win baby yeh! Well that was the kind of buzz that every felt about it, me, I felt that it was a number, a number assigned to a chronological record of my life, a number that would allow me to live parts of life that had before been blocked, almost like hitting a level in an MMO that unlocks all kinds of new stuff for your character but after a little while you realize that there really isn’t anything to great about any of the new things and some of them kind of detract from the innocent fun of the game.

I should explain at this point that I really am nothing to special as a person, no gifted wunderkind with a brain the size of a melon, no spectacular athlete with a pituitary gland the size of the aforementioned brain. No I was just that kid who’s there in the background, blending into the scenery like a piece of familiar furniture that you don’t really realize is there until you go to sit on it. I don’t mean to paint myself as an outcast by any means, I did all the usual social things, went to parties, drank to much, had a few romances and a close circle of friends but I never really got close to any one. There is always a kid like me in there somewhere if you look for them, it’s just that no-one usually does. They are Probably to busy looking for an extreme, like another person who is gonna peak in school like you or someone who understands your angst and depression at being a teenager who doesn’t realize that you don’t have to fit a stereotype to be popular and that your social circle is just as valid as everyone else’s. No the true loneliness is in the middle ground, the kid who is on the outside looking in, the middle of the ven-diagram that is the social hierarchy, part of every circle but belonging to none of them, a kid like me.

I get kinda contemplative like that when I look back over the events that made the week of my eighteenth what it was and formed the catalyst of my metamorphosis into the man behind this pen. I think that the pressure to be excited was my main feeling in the lead up, between my friends with thier planning my adulthood ritual and my parents fawning over me and saying things like “I can remember when I was eighteen, it whips past son, make the most of it.” I felt oddly untroubled by the transition from child to adult. My main emotion if I recall was how on earth was I meant to have a part in deciding who would run the country, I knew nothing about politics, that usually lead to thoughts like ‘Oh god how many voters are there like me? How can the government be trusted if the people who put them in office know so little about who to vote for.” That usually lead me onto a tangent that would eventually result in me nose deep into a book of some sort. The written word was always calming to me. It seemed like a safe, fixed point in the maelstrom of time whipping about around me, I probably got those feelings from my father. He was always so concerned about running out of time he didn’t realize that making the most of the time given to him was the best he could hope for, probably why he never spent any time with me, gave me a cool pocket watch though.

My friends were all a-buzz for weeks, saying how they were going to get so wasted at my party and how they might finally get the courage up to ask out that special someone, most of the time the people afraid of what that special someone might think never found out because the object of their affections felt the same way as them and were held back by the same human feelings of rejection. I’m good at that though, noticing little signs that people make, the looks that lead on objects of lust, the little facial expressions that say I’m not in the mood, the curious laugh when someone laughs at a joke they don’t like just to impress the objects of their desire. Other people don’t slow down enough to stop and take notice, the pace of their lives carries them through it so fast they can’t stop and see it for what it is, a beautiful, endlessly chaotic confusion of sounds and feelings that don’t slow until they stop. My friends were very guilty of this, they drank and danced and floored it through life so quickly they didn’t realize that their song was coming to an end until the very last bars. One in particular was what some would call a rock and roller without the music, he partied all night and slept all day, he missed the whole majesty of what was occurring before him in the most mundane detail to repeat an endless groundhog day of boring hedonistic routine. He was adamant that he would plan out my eighteenth to a tee “Seriously dude, this will be a week were gonna remember for the rest of our lives.” I know that was a bit of a boast on his part but the week lived up to his promotion.

One of the fascinations of turning eighteen for many people I find is the expectation that you’d ‘cash in you V-Card’ I never saw why people were so concerned about when they made love for the first time, surely it doesn’t matter only that you enjoy it, social comparison ever the bane of the teenager I guess. At the time I was smitten with a girl, Nicki from my home group in school, she filled all of the base needs I suppose, attractive, funny, smart and caring but what really interested me was her smile. When Nicki smiled it was as if the sun came out after a day where clouds had darkened the sky since morning, I always noticed the slight dimples on her cheeks, red with blush and the dazzling white of her teeth shining as if illuminated from within. Alas like most things of the beauty Nicki’s smile was as rare as angel dust, she had a boyfriend, why she stayed with him no-one knew, he was abusive and didn’t hide the fact that he would hurt her for unclear reasons, still no-one intervened. Around the time of my birthday I started getting fanciful notions that I would somehow ‘rescue’ Nicki and sweep her up into my arms like some clichéd night in shining armor, naturally in my mind Nicki would have no problems with this and we would live happily evermore. My friends, being the kind of people they were stoked the fires of my affection for Nicki, making jokes, advising me to ‘just go for it’ my birthday seemed the perfect time to take that advise, before time ran out on me like it did my father.

As the weeks closed in on the party that I seemed to be having planned for me by various acquaintances grew and grew, the pretence that this would be to celebrate my ascension into ‘adult hood’ a mere shadow as it became clear that the party was far more about the guests than me, as if the party had taken up an existence of it’s own and become this foreboding entity of transition, from the care free to the responsible, the end of innocence in the form of a piss up on the beach, almost poetic in its inappropriateness. The guest list grew and bulged at the waste as people I hardly knew were invited for the mere purpose of making it the biggest party seen in the history of forever, I never understood the impression size made on the conciseness of the masses, surely mere size just meant that any interesting parts were further away from each other like that godforsaken sand pit Australia. Before I knew random people in the street were coming up to me and thanking me for the invite, RSVPs poured in from people I didn’t know and the ever present maelstrom of time in my head was joined by a cacophonous racket of blank faces and names without bodies all of which looked to me as some sultan of enjoyment, a guru of decadence, a dancing bear, there only for there amusement to be left when the tune and my party was over. False friends crawled from the woodwork and were hastily added to the list as a party I didn’t care for grew to huge proportions. All the time I waited though, I waited for the one confirmed attendance that I cared about, the invitation I had made specilly with a care and love I doubted the person had ever been shown before in their shallow, scuffed life. I waited and nothing came, no word, no letter through the mail box, no brief conversation saying “I’m looking forward to your party.” No dream crystallization of what I had made myself believe.

The night before the party I cried, I cried long and deeply, the tears coming from a part of me that I only briefly dared to feel, shying away as it grew within my heart like a great drumbeat a shame, an anger a euphoria all beating away on my soul like a great war drum. My tears smeared the ink on the had written piece of paper, the golden foil edges crunching together in my hands as they crushed the side of the paper in faint premonition. I kept reading the one line written in beautiful curling script, the ink pink like bubblegum a color innocent and joyful like the author deserved to be. My tears had distorted a few words but the line was burned into the back of my heart eternally as a painful reminder “Sorry, I can’t make it, you don’t mind do you?” The politeness of the reply, the cold kindness burned through me.

The morning of my birthday was nothing special, dad made pleasantries with a side of bacon and some eggs, nothing says happy birthday in the house I grew up in like fried breakfast, sometimes I felt that more loved by the strips of dead pig that I scarfed down than by my own father. My mother was her usual doting self, she was woman who cared too much, about me, about my father despite his distance and even about the people who came around every now and then to clean the windows, she always cared more than was healthy. She woke me up with a gift, all wrapped up in the same type of wrapping paper she always wrapped my presents with. She sang a special song that she used to sing to send me to sleep as I gently removed the paper. She cried with pride as I sat up in bed, bleary eyed and opened the box to discover a framed picture of the family, me, my mother and father all smiling at the beach when I was ten. The image summed up the part of my life that was closing and the child that was slowly fading, the picture brought tears to my eyes as the memory of it does now, I sometimes wonder whether she still keeps the picture out on the mantle or whether it has been confined to the attic.

As I drove to school I looked out the window and saw the ‘bright future’ of adulthood all around me, there were people lining up for buses for jobs that they hate,. There were people on phones who were to busy talking to there business contacts to talk to people they wanted to talk to. There were parents dragging their children in tow behind them making sure that they weren’t late for school so they could carry on the cycle that would bring those kids to drag their kids to school one day. There were bums on the streets so busy praying to go back and fix there lives that they don’t do what they can in the present to fix themselves and all around there were cars of people heading off to various places all knowing that no matter what they did at these places there was someone out there somewhere living the good life, not realizing that the first step towards this is to work to live and not vise versa. My father was one of these people, always complaining how he never got to spend time with me and my mother, but ultimately not realizing that he didn’t have to work all the time.

At school I got the usual birthday treatment, people stopping me to wish me happy birthday, friends leading a class in awkward song in an age old ritual to bring embarrassment, I even got a hug and a smile from Nickie my fondest yet most painful memory. The day whipped past in a kind of blur as I went through the motions, I never really got the video for that song where the guy is bumping past people in the street as they walk by so wrapped up in life but I did that day because everyone else was happy, a happiness that belonged to me that they were stealing. I couldn’t get excited for the party even as everyone piled into their cars and put up signs in the window ‘Victor or Bust’ and ‘18th on the beach’ all I could think of was her smile and how it wouldn’t be seen at the part, how the most beautiful thing on the planet wouldn’t be at this hollow celebration. I drove home on a kind of auto pilot, my mind was awash with a colors and feelings colliding and pouring over each other in a muddle of confusion and life, but I felt distant from it, like I didn’t belong to this happiness, like I was just the vehicle for these feelings not the one having them, it felt numb and cold.

The party itself was a bit of a blur at first, the people I had travelled down with and myself arrived on the beach first and set up a huge white marquee we had hired for the event. It was a bit sandy and dusty by the time we got it up but we got there just as cars started arriving. Some kind of music was playing; a mix of dance songs played, the base was heavy vibrating my eardrums and mirroring the sound of my internal confusion. The music seemed to be asking the same questions that I was, what am I doing here? Am I enjoying myself? Can I enjoy myself? I danced along with everyone else, drank copious amounts of liquor until I felt sick and made the obligatory socializations but my heart was far from in it. Everywhere around me people were having fun and dancing on air while I was drowning, drowning within my own soul and all I could do was pretend to swim.

Then I heard it, above the noise of the crowd, above the swirling confusion of bass and the noise of the drunken party goers, a laugh so beautiful I haven’t been able to stop hearing it since, it’s mocking giggle reverberating inside my head, judging me, condemning me. She was here, she had lied to me but she was here, that was all that mattered to me. I pushed through the throng, the bodies of the party goers knocking me and patting me on the back as I went past, everywhere I went “Happy birthday!” or “Great Party dude.” A few girls even pulled me into a hug and had there friends take pictures of them pecking me on the cheek but I was completely focused on making my across to the other side of the marquee. Judging by the stain on my jacket that I found later I’d bumped into someone carrying a can of UDL of some other alcho-pop. An insidious product I always felt, poison marketed to young women as noting more dangerous than there normal soft drink, I was always of the opinion that if you are going to try and sell something to someone sell it as it is, don’t tell someone that a donkey is a prized bull.

I stopped and stood for a minute, the woman in the black dress, dancing and laughing, her mouth open in a smile of pure enjoyment and love for life that was so beautiful that even the can of Woodstock in her hand looked like some kind of bespoke accessory in the height of fashion from the streets of San Francisco, Los Angeles or New York. Her fire red hair cascaded down her shoulders and her pale skin shone in the moon light like some kind of heavenly vision that was otherwordly yet more real than anything else on the beach that night. She noticed me walking over as her emerald green eyes flicked over to me, the pools of green so deep that you could spend your life gazing into them and still not comprehend the true majesty of the delicate jewels that shone in the moonlight illuminated like shining stones. Her arms, white as porcelain yet soft as silk wrapped around me in a hug after she strolled over to me with the delicate grace of a swan on water “Happy birthday!” she beamed “Finally a grown up now them, no, your still cool.” We talked and danced for a while in the moonlight as the party swelled and dissipated as people came and went. She told me all about her dreams for the future, how she would go to Europe for a little while and then she would learn to paint and fall in love. My heart nearly broke at the thought of her leaving, I wanted her to be happy but it needed to be with me, how could she not see it, that we were two pieces of the same entity that neither could exist fully without the other.

The sun gradually came up and people began to stagger to hotel rooms or their cars, some passed out on the beach. People were still dancing, determined to chase the last vestiges of the night to the very dying gasp of the evening. Before to long there was no-one on the left on the once crowded beach. We were two lonely souls on the shady shore looking out into the rising sun burning away the night and the remaining scraps of my pre-adult life. As the party had begun to die we began to talk about real issues, about why she was still with her abusive boyfriend to which she replied that she wasn’t that she had finally summoned the courage to leave him, that the rose had grown thorns after being trampled so often. After that we just sat for a while and watched the sun come up and people leave, the beach was empty before long and the throngs of people replaced with legions of footprints destined to be erased by the tide. Before long I brushed a strand of copper hair from her face and kissed her on the lips, the next thing I knew there was a hot sting on my face. The slap had hurt but inside it ignited a burning rage all I could hear was her laugh and all I could see was the scrunched golden paper on the invitation shining like her eyes in moonlight, my hands snaked around her delicate neck, my knuckles were white with firey rage and hot tears rolled down my face as she choked, the horrible sound mockingly contrasting with the echoes of her laugh in my mind.

She was still thrashing when I felt the hands on my shoulder pulling me back, my arms thrashed out in front of my seeking the touch of her soft, warm skin as I sobbed while being dragged back. The last time I saw Nicki she was coughing and spluttering as I was dragged away, I wish every day I could see her again, I’m not complete without her and I know that I can still make her happy, she just has to realize it. For now though my room and soft it’s white walls remind me of her pale skin, I would stroke the padded fabric to remind myself of how she felt but my arms are kept wrapped around me. I can still hear her laugh, it helps me sleep most of the time, It reminds me of my birthday.

I think it goes without saying I don't condone or approve of any of my main characters behaviour

[Redriak]

The Heir
By Glenn Winfrey - Redriak

All of his life, Christopher had lived in the shadow of his elder brother, Peter. Peter was always the one who was taught in the ways of ruling the people. Peter was always the one who received the attention from their parents. Peter, the eldest. Peter, the great. Peter was always the one expected to become king, and Christopher truly, completely, undeniably hated him for it. Christopher held such a raging animosity for his brother that, at times, he couldn’t contain it. Throughout their childhood, Christopher had exhibited severe signs of violence and jealousy to his brother. This, no matter how Peter fought for a case of ‘violence against the true heir,’ was disregarded and pushed aside, called “normal sibling rivalry.”

But sibling rivalry took a new form when a drastic chain of events changed their view of the importance of older and younger forever. At an early age in the boys’ lives, their father was brutally slain in battle. The body that they found had only one distinguishing characteristic - the crest upon the king’s shield. Their mother passed soon after, bringing in a steward to hold the seat of king until the heir came of age. The morticians had said that Christopher’s mother died due to poison, though no further investigation was made. Christopher suspected Peter, who was, if it was possible, more eager to take the throne than were the people who taught Peter in the ways of ruling. This began a subtle rise in Christopher’s hate for Peter as rage over Peter’s inevitable rise to rule and his smugness over his ability to take the throne sooner than ever before grew and grew. Peter wasn’t sorry for the death of either of his parents, this Christopher knew. Peter did not cry when he heard news of his father’s death, nor when he heard of his mother’s. They were simply obstacles to Peter’s single goal in life: to take the throne.

But even as his animosity grew, Christopher buried his hatred for his brother under a shallow layer of soil. He wouldn’t have the kingdom becoming suspicious of him if anything ‘convenient’ was to happen, such as an unlucky fall down the stairs, or an accident on a hunting trip. He would wait for his opportunity and take it. But as the years went by, slipping through the boy’s hands like sand, he became increasingly aware of the looming date to come.

That Friday - five days in the future - Peter was to come of age to become king. The coming Friday would be Peter’s 18th birthday. Christopher planned to disallow his brother from ever taking the throne. He planned to murder his brother the night before he came of age. His last opportunity to take the throne for his own good - as well as for the good of the kingdom. For the good of all, that was what this was for, Christopher told himself as he plotted his brother’s fate.

It was a severely cold December, and Peter had caught a moderate case of influenza. Each time Peter coughed, one who was walking down the hall or was in the dining room (the room below his bedroom) could feel the floorboards shake and hear the boy’s moaning and groaning. Everyone who heard of the occurrence gave their absolute sympathy to the boy, much to Christopher’s dismay. But, as it was at that time that Christopher was plotting his elder brother’s death, and the sound of his brother’s incessant coughing gave him an idea. Being that his brother was always alone in his bedroom, this would be Christopher’s opportunity.

Christopher was gathering all of his supplies and completing his planning. The idea had occurred to him when he began bringing his brother food while Peter laid in bed, miserable and sick, immobilized from the covers by both the chilling air outside the quilts and the pains in his chest and abdomen from his unending coughing fits.

At first, Christopher wanted to poison Peter’s food, seeing it fitting that that was the fate Peter had delivered to their mother. But, being the one who delivered the food, Christopher decided that he would be too obvious a suspect. No, Christopher decided, he would have to do this in a way in which he wouldn’t be revealed as the killer.

Christopher spent hours sitting and deliberating over what weapon he would use on his brother, but each seemed to hold a special disadvantage. A knife? No. It could be tracked back to the smith, and there was no way for Christopher to order the creation of a blade without it being noted. A mace? There was no way Christopher could take it in and out without being caught. A simple wooden board? Blood would surely spatter on Christopher’s clothing, and that would incite suspicion. Christopher ran through every possible weapon he could use in his brother’s demise, but rejected them all.

At the end of his brooding, there was only one kind of weapon that he knew could not be traced back to him, for he carried the weapons with him everywhere. His hands. Christopher planned to kill his brother with his bare hands. Peter, in his weakened state, wouldn’t be capable of defending himself against Christopher as he would grip his brother’s neck and press down, slowly, allowing himself to feel each and every bit of air slip from his brother’s lungs as his brain, with the lack of oxygen, would begin to fail slowly and, with a final spasm of hopelessness, give up and die.

Christopher had seen his brother toying with rats from the castle enough to understand the process of suffocation. And now, after years of hatred and jealousy piled upon each other, Christopher decided that Peter meant little more to him that what the rats meant to Peter. Vermin, that’s what Peter was. A nuisance that was constantly bringing filth into his home and thieving from his pantry.

Yes, Christopher decided, this was it. The way. He would watch Peter - his own brother, his own flesh and blood, die under his hand. Christopher could already imagine his brother’s body, joints bent in awkward positions from the struggling. His eyes bulging grotesquely from his skull, his mouth hanging open as he made his last attempt to gasp for breath, stymied by Christopher’s hands pressing hard on his brother’s throat.

There was only one thing that Christopher wasn’t sure about, and that was the possibility of his brother calling for help before he could get a proper grip on Peter’s neck.

The progression of the week into the next day began to dim those fears. Peter was coughing far more violently than ever now, and evidence of blood from the young man’s raw throat was spattered on his sheets. The maids would send Christopher up with a bowl of soup or a cup of hot tea for the ailing brother’s ‘poor throat’, but Christopher would always find a way to rid himself of the liquid before each meal, and his brother would be left with nothing but a bit of water, a dry loaf of bread, and cooked chicken to ease his sickness. This continued to aggravate his brother to the point where, when Christopher asked how his brother was feeling, Peter would simply not reply.
It was Wednesday night, and Christopher was contemplating simply letting his brother die of this horrid influenza than wracked him night and day when he brought food in for his brother’s evening meal. Perhaps he would allow his brother to die a simple death of sickness, and Christopher would leave this unscathed and no one would suspect him. Christopher was toying with the idea as he laid the silver platter of food on his brother’s lap and asked, as he always did, “How are you feeling tonight, brother?”

His brother, dismayed again at the lack of any sort of warm liquid to calm his now weak and painful-sounding cough, grabbed his glass of water and threw it at Christopher.

Even though Peter’s voice was weakened, and his body was weakened as well, Peter could still throw fairly well. The water spilled all over Christopher, not only hurting him physically - chilling him to the bone, but ridiculing him - Peter’s guard was stifling a laugh as he left his brother’s room.

There would be no mercy for Peter. Christopher decided this in that moment. That had been the last straw and now Christopher’s rage - what had once been a pile of gently roasting coals - became a full-sized inferno. He would see his brother in his final moments, and Peter would know the hatred Christopher reserved for him. Peter would, in his final moments, see Christopher’s smiling face looking down upon him as his life slipped from his grip.

The next day, Christopher couldn’t sit still. He would find himself shivering at times, even when he was warm. People thought he might be catching his brother’s sickness in the cold, but it was only the anxiety of what was to come that night. All he could think about was his plan. He kept going over it in his mind, certain that it would succeed. He traced what his steps would be when he brought Peter up his lunch. Peter was asleep in bed. Christopher looked down at his brother’s sleeping form. His face looked so peaceful. His muscles were completely relaxed. Not a hint of suspicion rested upon the young man’s face. Small clouds would appear above Peter’s face as he breathed out into the frigid air. Christopher hesitated at his brother’s bedside, shivering. He could kill his brother now. Right now. And no one would see. Peter wouldn’t be able to react in time to survive. Christopher stood there for what seemed like hours, contemplating whether he was to kill his brother then and there, or if he was to wait and proceed to the plan.

Peter awoke slowly, blinking his eyes and then bolting upright in alarm at the sight of his brother at the side of his bed. Christopher’s heart skipped a beat, jumping to an unhealthily fast pace. Christopher pointed at his brother’s food, trying to conceal the obvious shaking in his hands. Again, not from the chill of the room, though that was also clearly there, but from the sudden rush of adrenaline that was now pumping through his veins. “There‘s your food. Eat it.” Christopher turned around and walked briskly from his brother’s room, his heart pounding. What just happened? Christopher tried to conceive what exactly had occurred in the preceding moments. As he slowed his breathing and, consequently, his heart rate, one thought ran through his mind.

Another opportunity was missed.Still, the plan tonight will work. It must. For his good. For the good of the kingdom. It must work.

He heard his brother coughing from his room as he left. He smirked. Of course it would work. There was not one flaw in the plan. The plan was absolutely perfect.

That evening, the air seemed as cold as death. The maids gave Christopher Peter’s evening meal. One he would never eat. The only one where Peter would see any form of soothing substance for his throat. Unfortunately, Peter would never drink from the cup of hot tea that sat on the tray. Peter’s time was coming very soon.

He walked down the hallway and watched the clouds of his breath appear in front of him. Each of his heartbeats seemed to eclipse the sound of his boots on the wooden floor. The pounding sensation shook his ribcage hard, as though his heart was struggling to find some morality and escape this body before it committed the crime, the plan of which was running quickly through Christopher’s mind over and over again, never letting him forget a single part of the plan. His resolve held, his mind calculating and as cold as the air in the hallway.

It was a simple enough plan. Set down the tray, show Peter the food if he was awake, and, whether Peter was awake or not, perform the deed as quickly and quietly as possible. Discretion was key if Christopher was to escape and take the throne after his brother’s death. So that’s what Christopher aimed for: discretion.

The following fifteen minutes seemed to pass by in slow motion to Christopher. The steps down the hallway, echoing in his chest with his heartbeat, which seemed to grow faster and louder with each step he took, with every inch that brought him closer to his destiny. The doorknob turned with a gentle creak as Christopher opened the door into his brother’s room. Christopher’s heart stopped. There Peter was, sitting straight up and staring at Christopher. A million thoughts ran through his mind at once. Did he know about Christopher’s plan? How? Are they coming to get him now?

Christopher’s heart began to beat fast. Much, much faster than it had been beating even in the hall just moments before. It was pounding so fast and with so much force that he feared Peter could see it beating, even under his tunic and beneath his rib cage.

No, he had to stay calm. He quickly composed himself. “Good evening, brother,” he said to Peter, “how are you feeling?”

Peter stayed silent. Christopher saw the look in Peter’s eyes when he looked at the tea. He wanted it. His throat ached for something to soothe the pain. Something to help the healing process. At this thought, Peter burst into a fit of coughing, seeming to shake the room. Clouds of fog burst from Peter’s mouth in the chill air. Christopher saw flecks of red fly through the air as well. Christopher crossed the room to the table next to Peter’s bed and sat the tray upon the table. He turned to Peter and looked him in the eye. Peter looked straight back.

Christopher tried to sound calm when he began the next sentence, but his voice came out shaky. Why was he talking at all? This wasn’t the plan! “You’ve got a big day tomorrow. You need some strength, so the maids prepared you some tea.” He reached out to the teacup, his hand still shaking. Why was he doing this? What was he trying to accomplish? Christopher handed the teacup to his brother, but not before spilling more than a quarter of the tea from the violent shaking in his hand.

Peter took the tea and sipped, slowly. He croaked out, painfully, “I’ve been waiting a long time for that.”

Christopher nodded. This was not the way the plan was supposed to go. What was he thinking? “Do you have any idea what you’ll say when they ask you to speak?”

Peter nodded, smirking and whispering, “I’ll tell them that I’m pleased to say I survived an assassination attempt.”

Christopher’s heart stopped. His mind went blank. Time seemed to freeze. He had to do something, and immediately. He made his decision within a fraction of a second. Suddenly, it was as if Christopher’s entire world went into motion. He leapt forward, grasping at his brother’s throat maniacally. This was it. The moment. It was now or never.

Then, the worst noise that could have been made came out of Peter’s mouth. Peter, who had had a horrible cough and sore throat for a week now, managed to thrust from his lungs a yell. This yell was cut off by Christopher’s hands wrapping around his neck, but not before the noise was heard by a guard down the hall, who, as Christopher pressed his hands against Peter’s neck in a desperate attempt to finish the act before the guard could arrive and stop him, burst into the room.

Christopher was dragged from his brother. He wanted desperately to fight back against the guard, but he didn’t. He watched his brother point at him and accuse him of treason. He saw the hallway receding behind him as he was carried away forcefully down the stairs, out the door, and to the castle dungeon.

In the cold December night, the dungeon was frigid. Christopher’s breath clouded around him as he shivered and struggled to maintain body heat. He could feel ice crystals forming on his lips as his breath would condense gently on them. The moon shone in gently through a barred window about 20 feet above him, near the ceiling of the cell.

What went wrong? Christopher had been certain that no sound loud enough to alert anyone could escape Peter’s mouth, save for a cough, and that wouldn’t arouse anyone suspicions.

It must have been the tea. Christopher struggled to hold back tears that were welling in his eyes. He had failed. His brother would become king, and he would rot in prison until he died. He pressed his palms to his eyes. Fireworks danced on the inside of his eyelids from the pressure of his hands. They were celebrating Peter’s rise to power. It never should have happened. It never should have occurred. Tears rolled down Christopher’s face, slowly freezing on his cheeks. This was not the way the world was supposed to be. Memories flooded his mind, repeating the same single word that reverberated through his entire life. Unfair. Unfair, unfair, unfair. The word cut into his heart, and the tears rolled faster, still freezing and forming small icicles on his cheeks. Some managed to make it to the ground and settle into a tiny icy spot on the stone of the floor.

Suddenly, a guard yelled down the hall, “The heir is in poor health. It has been asked that you pray for his livelihood since the assassination attempt and his illness.”

So there is still a chance. Christopher smiled slightly. If he wasn’t getting the throne, neither would his brother. He knew he had to stay up as long as he could to know whether his brother had died or not. He shivered. Staying awake wouldn’t be a problem in this frigid night air.

--------

Peter coughed, a cloud of fog bursting out of his mouth and into the air, blood spattering his sheets yet again. His throat burned, even as the icy air slipped into his lungs each time he took a gravelly inward breath. He had to survive. He had to live, to carry his father’s name through and bring his family back to the throne.

But what if he didn’t live? What if, somehow, this sickness overcame his body and he didn’t survive to take the throne? He had to fulfill his oath that he had taken for his father. That he would return the family name to rule the kingdom. His oath only became stronger after his mother was assassinated - an incident of whose instrumentation Peter had no clue. It was a question that plagued him intensely for years after. But his thoughts drifted back to the question at hand. What if, on this night before his eighteenth birthday, Peter did, in fact, die?

The surgeon standing next to the bed, staring off into the distance with a cold, grim look on his face made the question sink into Peter’s chest slowly. He knew there was only one answer. There was only one other who held the family name. But Christopher had clearly exhibited treason. He would only be set free if he was issued a royal pardon. Could Peter trust Christopher? Obviously not. But… If it came to Peter’s death, Christopher had to take the throne. To fulfill the promise.

Peter coughed again, harder than before. More blood. More burning in his throat. Something in his mind seemed to snap when he coughed, and he could feel his body shake as he struggled to recover. This was it. Peter had to tell them to pardon Christopher now, or else he would never get a chance, and if Peter died, Christopher had to take the throne.

Peter waved to a guard nearby. The guard walked to the bed and leaned over to hear Peter’s rasping voice as it said, “I would like to officially pardon my brother for his act of treason. Release him immediately.”

The guard gave Peter a bewildered look. “Sir, but-”

Peter waved it away and whispered, “Go. Now.” Before bursting into a coughing fit that seemed to last for hours.

The guard proceeded from the room and headed for the royal dungeon to tell the guards there to release Christopher.

-------

Christopher had stopped shivering about twenty minutes ago. The world seemed to be getting warmer the less he moved, so he decided to concentrate on sitting completely still. He wondered why it was getting warmer… But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered other than what was happening here and now. Christopher smiled slightly as he sat and thought of how his brother was dying. Slowly, painfully. While Christopher sat comfortably in the warmth around him. Peter deserved every bit of it after what he had done to their mother. After he poisoned their mother.

Suddenly, a guard came running down the hall outside Christopher’s cell. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. Something about Peter. It was always about Peter, wasn’t it? Peter this, Peter that. Christopher nearly assassinated the dolt, and all he got was a warm jail cell. Someone must have lit a fire nearby. Such a good fire.

The cell doors opened and the guards stepped in just as Christopher’s eyes began to close. He was feeling drowsy in all this warmth. It wouldn’t hurt to just take a little nap… He would find out about Peter’s death in the morning, of course. He fell asleep with a smile still on his face.

------

Peter’s eyesight was becoming blurry. His coughs seemed to be jarring the world up and down each time air burst from his lungs. He tried hard to concentrate all of his being on living, at least until he had seen his brother released with his very own eyes.

But the sickness was hitting him hard. Another cough sent the world flying in all directions. He retched, but nothing came out. He was horribly dizzy. He thought he saw a guard coming in the door out the corner of his eye, but he retched again and was forced to avert his eyes to try to hold himself still. He concentrated hard on the blood-speckled sheets under his hands as his world swam around him. The floor wouldn’t stay level. His head seemed to be floating back and forth. He retched again. This caused his eyes to roll slightly into his head. He tried harder to hold his vision on the sheets, but the world kept getting blurrier and blurrier, his vision progressively getting darker and darker. So this was it. There would be no throne for his family’s name.

He gave a final retch and blacked out.

-----

It was dark. Nothingness stretched out for miles and miles into the distance. Peter looked around. There was something - someone else here, though Peter couldn’t tell who. He seemed to float closer - or was the other person floating closer to him? He couldn’t tell. It was so dark around them, there was no reference point at all. Then, he recognized the person before him. It was his brother. Christopher.

“Christopher, where are we?” Peter asked his brother.

His brother just stared at him. Peter could hear in his mind, “You’re dead. Just like me.”

“We’re.. Dead? But who will take the thro-” Peter almost said, but something stopped him. The throne didn’t seem to matter. There was something much more important here to say.
The words slipped from Peter - from inside him, for Peter had now realized that he wasn’t actually speaking these words, he was simply… feeling them. “I… I forgive you, brother. I forgive you for what you tried to do.”

His brother nodded, still staring blankly. “You don’t need to forgive me, but there’s one last thing I have to say to you before we go.”

A gentle light seemed to appear from nowhere. A sense of urgency overcame Peter. “What? What do you have to say?”

His brother smiled slowly. “Happy birthday, Peter.”

With that, the light consumed the pair and receded, leaving the place in complete darkness.




Hope you all enjoyed the story. I had fun writing it.

[V]

The Passings
By I<3Pink

Warning: Contains brief moments of alcohol and drug use, and moments of violence.
(I hope it is birthdayish enough XD)

The Passings.

They say you don't remember your first, that it washes away within the rivers of time forgotten. That it is a simple insignificance to yourself and that you'd care none the less as it passed by. It a meaningless event at a meaningless time. Nothing more. They never accounted for him and his Remembrance.
They say you don't remember your first, Walt does.
Like yesterday it comes readily remembered, loved into a special companion. One which tea is drunk over, one which alcohol is consumed but doesn't result in drunkenness. It isn't demanding despite having the patience of a child.
It comes to him now, the first in open arms. And Walt remembers:

they stood together arms wrapped around each other. A man and woman kissing underneath the light of the moon their features lit up but not quite readable. Only their waist up could be seen and beside them the stars and sky. But nothing else mattered only the pair and their love.
The man with his shaved head and broken torn ear lobe which was an much unattractive as alluring. Why was it scarred so? How did it occur? Her fingers wrapped around her lover's neck and gently held the area. There was a smile on the man's face, despite the poor light it was easily recognisable as he stared into the woman's face.
She was different – in an everything way – her clothing was short of elegant but held well, jewels that wrapped a delicate wrist mark with a scar, a smile that promised nothing and a standing that delivered power. Yet she stood helpless in his arms by her own accord.
The meeting didn't last.
Fourth came with his dark eyes and figure that shrugged away the moonlight. Dark he came through the fading edges slinking forward unnoticed; a shadow moving across a field with the slow passing of sun. Only Fourth wasn't quite as slow but he was dangerous. The knife made quick through the lovers' bodies.
Neither screamed.
Once the brutality was finished Fourth stood and searched. Panting he departed not finding his last target. Not finding the Third.

Memory ceased. He breathed out a pleasured sigh holding the images inside before allowing the fading to begin. They say you didn't remember – Walt defied and enjoyed despite the gory nature. Long ago the memory had caused deep grief intertwined with horror. Where was the scream, he'd often ask himself.
Second was different to the first; it was blank. A darkness that could have meant anything only revealed nothing. Ever. They could have said the same about the second – it was incomprehensible nothingness. Perhaps they were right on some things.
Second had been different, the memory of the first had been remembered whereas the first had nothing to call upon. And it had feared, cowered and hid itself away. So nothing could be remembered.
He waited for third to approach walking the length of the room in several strides. Pouring tea into his broken mug a tremor twitched his hands but managed to hold onto the kettle before setting it aside. Gasping through pain, leaving the tea behind in a mad stagger he found himself back into the chair staring hopelessly to the ground. Walt's eyes wandered from the slouched position taking in everything they could trying to determine whether he still lived or not.
Pain subsided leaving a different sort of memory in place.
Third came quick after:

gutter sludge at the edge of the road was no place for anyone to be. At the corner where all things washed up; bad and worse. People didn't often sleep there, and when they did it was because they had nowhere else.
Covered with gloom and threatened by storm; rumbles passed over head with every few minutes. Flashes well in the distance brought brief glimpses of the hope of coming light as sunset took the remaining day. Its presence marked only as an orb behind low grey clouds.
During night all of those that lurked out of sight in the day wandered; those with dark dealings in their minds - those that fed on the weakness of others. They come now, strangers but not new to the area, slinking out of their holes and keeping out of any stray light. But remaining in sight wanting to be found.
Approached by a haggard fellow whose nerves make him jittery, they make a show of looking for any unwanted onlookers. Ones eyes fall to the gutter with a smirk, he taps his dealer companion. They both leer. Anxiously their client shifts from foot to foot, he babbles something urgently and rattles his pocket. Transactions occurred, he left smoking.
One of the remaining pair rolls a coin toward the gutter.

Memory ceased; thoughts remained. Walt wasn't fond of Third, Third was fickle and came unannounced every time. Its taste lingered unpleasant and taxing on his mind, half the reason he'd wanted tea.
With the memory his body had been washed free of the pain, the tremors vanished alongside. Weary he lurched back upright rubbing his eyes. The tea had gone cold, it was tipped and another was made to replace. Sitting once more, sipping from the mug, warmth took over and held the weariness away. Remnants of memory washed away replaced with the present.
Fourth came and went; like Second in that regard. A curse the evens had developed, unfortunately. Only an eerie presence and flash of black transpired before he returned to himself, the chair, the table and an empty mug.
More time to dwell on the two remembered; neither was appealing however. He sat back and waited for the strange remembrance to take hold once more. Fifth was like sunshine peeking through on a rainy day, for a moment giving a choice – one to continue onward in hope of finding fresh shelter. Or staying put safe and dry out of potential soaking rain.
He fell asleep before it came pondering consequences and the future.
Croaking awake, he remembers:

two coins for a loaf; one for half. Eat for two days or just one.
She watched the choice being made with disinterest, she was like the rest and only wanted what was owed. For her money, whether a whole loaf was sold now didn't matter. She'd sell the rest later, there were enough around to trade with.
Enough that could easily take from anybody weaker. The rule was to eat straight away, lest it be taken, it happened often enough to those that forgot. Food was different to coins like that – food was worth the risk of a fight if you could win. Coins weren't. All money could do was buy food, most had a stash to draw from and most never carried coins unless buying food. There was too much of a risk to fight for them.
She watched but didn't know how many coins there was to be traded. Her loaves weren't going anywhere for hours she could wait. But her anger was fierce and only one customer approached at a time. None usually said for too long, not to for her company and not to talk.
There was a choice to be made.
Risk having carrying a loaf or opt for safety.
A choice was made and she was left with half a loaf less and a coin in pocket.
After all sentiments were beyond risks.

It was left on the table before him now, a friend for a long time. The gift of remembered kindness. Dented, marked, chipped into, making any resemblance to its original form incomprehensible. An old coin with faded colour. Stark in contrast to the vibrant polished wood the coin rested upon. He rolled it over fondly.
Never spent, even when in the most dire of situations, his first coin. Probably never to be spent now he'd been attached to it for so long. It reminded him of things his Remembrance didn't; those who had been friends.
Before anything occurred the object was back hidden in a pocket out of sight.
Cursed evens returned with the Sixth. A fog caught his mind for it's duration taking away his previous focus' in an instant replacing with a sense of loss. Quivering Walt grasped the table with a strong grip trying to remain stable. Fog left a mist – then pain. It returned with a behemoth of force, blinding him with great strength. Collapsing under strain and falling under losing concious.
It wasn't long until the remaining fog lifted.
A leg had broken, cracked and splintered making his chair absolutely useless. Laying nearby he controlled his body more readily, the attack had left him sweating and out of breath. Supported by a wall he sat and prepared for more onslaughts of memories and illness.
Wiping his forehead, seventh loomed:

years hadn't taken the toll, not yet, their figures still pristine. Ravaged from street life, but pristine and unmarked. Hidden wealth unsuitable for lives of rats; belts untarnished with marks of desecration, boots laced together snug, rough yet well fitted shirts. Clothing that was more than rags. Dark smudges, grime and whatever else that was picked up clung in layers. Everyone was mark during the street – no one expected to be spared that treatment.
Recognition wasn't in them, few gave lasting impressions. Even fewer wanted to.
Dealing with a customer they noticed as one the stranger approaching, eyes gave silent commands and decisions made in an instant. Each took a step back waving their customer on. Deal done; money in their pockets.
The stranger didn't stop, gave no notice to the dealer pair. The stranger kept walking. But he wasn't, he was known, he was the Fourth. Assassin and the one with the knife, one with the eyes. They lit up with dark pupils against extreme whites. Knife blade unsheathed with a flourish and Fourth hastened.
A fist broke the assassins charge.
Both dealers blocked the path, one holding the knife arm. The other smashed another fist into Fourth.
One of the dealers yelled something.

He snarled throwing the broken leg across the room. The piece of wood hit a candle before both fell to stone. Flame flickered once before becoming extinguished leaving the room with less light. Night was in full with a bright moon to guide outside. A cool breeze wisped through one of the open windows; the night wasn't cold, despite.
Groaning with the toll Remembrance took he managed to roll onto all four of his limbs. Shaking he stood, he splashed water everywhere while drinking. Before falling back down to rest against the wall.
Poisons tore through his system as the following two passed by otherwise unnoticed. Maintaining conciousness throughout the ordeals he squirmed against cold stone body covered again in sweat. Blood dripped from Walt's nose as the final wave concluded, he smudged it with a clumsy palm. Eyes white the man stared across wheezing. Only the thought that he was awake gave hope.
Exhausted all he could do was wait for Tenth to approach, the last of those that were numbered. One of the more important, the one which King first appeared.
King the man who was enemy, was friend once, who showed up regardless. King who had returned from the dead, twice. Dangerous, loveable, hated. King.
Tenth was like the First. A sense of fondness came removing every negative it touched. Illness retreated with poison halting its crusade. Another old friend that settled into a comfortable groove taking away the world for a few minutes.
Remembrance continued:

a building stood away from it all. It was clean and distant. A field of green was out back, crisp grass that was nice to walk upon. Shadowed from fierce sun by looming great trees, the front gate was set ajar. A path made of slate directed passage to the building, from the gaps beneath each flat grey piece emerged thick weeds.
A garden bordered the path, bushes and flowers full of life in rows of beds. The narrow path separated two halves which shied away from symmetry – little regard was taken for such in the planting. Surrounding the grass field behind the building a wall built from stone hid the activities of those inside. More gardens had been grown along the wall.
Inside was nothing spectacular.
It held the same sense of foreignness, however.
King, as everyone called him, King, as he called himself, was seated at the only table. A lantern hung from a chain giving poor light to anywhere but the table. Papers, just readable with notes from King's own hand piled over the polished wood. His hand's flicked through pages before pulling out a rough piece. Unfolding King revealed a map.
Tapping a finger on a faraway location King brought forth a sealed note and placed it before them. King had many plans, they said. He wanted to change the world. Most of his ideas were dangerous and carried out with himself in charge. But King couldn't go everywhere and do everything – despite seeming to be able to do both – and needed people.
One part of the dealers lifted the note from the table with a nod before returning to his place.
King sat back for the first time looking at the Dealers with interest. He'd never been a beautiful man, not even pretty, and now in his aging. It wasn't noticeable to the untrained but the signs were already there. No one had ever known how old the man actually was.
Patchy hair, dark from the ill light, and a scratchy beard covered King's bony cheeks and stressed forehead. His eyes gave quiet concentration and inspection whilst his lips moved little. His garments had no sense of wealth.
King gave the dealers a wave of his hand in simple dismissal.

It followed quick:

one of them, the older brother, held his hand up high in a wave. Blocking torch light for several moments, likewise on shore a beacon flickered off and then on. Revealing the path through early morning mists to the docks.
Sailing had taken several hours in darkness to arrive before the city awoke. A cautionary step in case others worked against King. A man waved the ship up alongside the pier, a rope was tied hastily. Stepping off the ship both Dealers carried several crates to the Docks man before returning for small supplies of their own. The rope was let free.
The boat began to move and the dealers turned to the city.
A burst of heat.
The ship exploded.
Debris flew, several bits collided with the Dealers pair; the man at the end of the pier shuddered away from the blast. A large splash sent water into the air alongside the wooden planks. Before the world tipped over.
A pool of blood formed on the planking. The liquid seeped into the wood through the cracks dripping to the ocean below. Flames from the burning ship reflected on the surface, lanterns swung on polls nearby against the mist filled sky. One of the dealers - impossible to tell which knelt by the blood - a cut wept from his forehead, one of his arms was held close to his body.
With his free hand he reached over; the world shifted after several seconds of discord. Wreckage littered the short line with smoke forming and filling the shores edge. Buildings near by were alight, people were beginning to emerge.
The second Dealer returned soaked through; wet from more than explosions splashes. His face was twisted in rage but he refrained from yelling angrily. Instead he nodded toward the edge of the pier; an escape route awaited at the edge of the long planks. Alongside one of the burning buildings at the waters edge the docks man waited with his lantern dead. He was hidden from the incoming crowds. He waved once before scurrying down the narrow path.
Brief glimpses of morning sun started to shine.
But someone didn't want them there.

Succeeded by:

caught in the moment of joyous thunder yet unable to smile. Amongst all the love, all the merriment, something was profoundly wrong. Everybody knew it; the air spoke with eerie stillness whilst waiting for the truth to be revealed. Humidity was rising, clothing stuck to skin, people crammed close to one another; everything waited for the moment.
But they had won; the city was theirs. Freedom had been found after years of fighting. Through covert and militant battles. It was over.
The Dealers approached the speaking stand looking morose. Neither lifted their eyes to greet the followers with a smile or even a nod. Grim they took each step up at a time with a great weight upon them. A wooden board creaked as they reached the stage over looking the gathered people. Turning they came face to face with their audience.
Joy turned to hush, the hundred packed in quietened quick. Coloured from all parts of the city, from the lowest of lows to the richest folk they waited. Mutterings has circled for hours and the confirmation or denial was to come now.
Faces could be seen from high windows, morning light making its way in. Hope was in their eyes, dreams still alive and not yet shattered. The older of the dealers stepped forward and cleared his throat. He looked at his feet.
A hush broke out before he spoke the words they all dreaded.
King was dead.
A second passed.
An arrow hit the older Dealer.
He fell backward; the arrowhead pierced his heart and protruded through the soft clothing. Hitting the the stage with a thud, one hand wrapped around the shaft. His brother looked down shocked.
A second passed.
Chaos erupted.

Exhausted from the assault of the thee continuous memories, breathing was horrendously strained to the point of gasping. Eyes white – aging his face several years. In agony Walt rolled to the side curling into a tight ball. His body twitched relieved of the poisons of memory. In effort he managed to sit against the wall once more.
Oozing from his nostrils, the blood dripped onto his shirt. A small pool had formed on the flooring. He smeared it with a finger looking dazed. Several seconds passed before the man registered what the liquid was. He leant back into the wall raising his face to the ceiling defeated.
The next memory came and went; a seafaring adventure with little importance or impact. He couldn't even remember why it happened any more. It was because of that, perhaps, that it eased by unnoticed.
Walt rose to his feet once it has left his system. Water was where he left it, a cool jug. Splashing water to remove the dried blood from skin clarity returned. Thoughts returned of more recent events before falling to the depths of his mind again.
A few tears escaped his eye. It happened every time.
Names were long forgotten, now, but every time it played through the feelings became stronger. The coin was in his hand while thinking, a gift, from a friend who was dead. The coin rolling to the gutter flashed before his eyes.
He found an unbroken seat before the next came, a second soothing sensation passed through. No longer was the image present but a surge of joy rolled through his body. It faded.
After another mouthful of water he was prepared for the approaching event. It edged around the back of his head for several seconds.
Then fifteenth remembrance came:

he was there now, alive and well, a calm set upon him. A scar where there had never been one before – he looked older too, troubles weighing him down. Clothing no longer was important to him, pieces hung loose off loose arms and bagged at his feet. Boots a little shabby, too.
Across the Dealer stood; looking worse. No one had ever asked how old he and his brother were but in the time since his older brothers death, this Dealer had aged a decade. Lines that had never been there emerged, white and grey hairs had started to take control above his ears and in his beard. He rubbed his eyes, now, tired.
They took seats opposite one another and their meeting begun. Neither had spoken for years but didn't bother to break into pleasantries. Straight to the point. Business. The discussion wasn't animated, both men said there bit in even tones. The meeting was a farewell; they were done. Afterward they shook hands and stood. Before the Dealer left, King gave a smirk to his old general's back. The other man didn't see it.
Most times the streets, these days, were bare. It wasn't any different now. The sun was fading with one last bright furious gaze. No wind blustered through the road.
Arrow through straight from the sun.
It pierced the Dealer's head and stayed.
The last Dealer fell and didn't rise.
From the sun he came, drawing his knife; discarding his bow. He was the assassin. The Fourth. For several frozen seconds nothing happened except the slow walk of an aging man.
The world shifted, turning in the opposite direction, it was rushing past buildings. In an attempt to escape.

The third since the first brother had died, and the hardest to remember. Remember without feeling the pain of loss, without the tears rolling down his face, without wanting to lay down and die himself. Both of Walt's only friends dead.
He could no longer remember the second brother's name either. Whether that was a kindness or not, he wasn't sure. He hated himself by this point and usually did. Hated Remembrance with passion – why could it recall the images and not the names? Why could he do this? Why did it happen every year.
Walt choked and let out a sob.
Walt collapsed onto the table weary from the toll. Poison still pumped through every vein but the levels were manageable. His body had begun to fight it properly. It wouldn't kill him. Not yet. Anyway. Whether it was a curse that came with the curse or a natural affliction, he couldn't tell, but every year it had gotten worse.
He felt like another drink, but it was coming now. The next, nothing like the previous, nothing like the First either, it was one that may one day be lost. It was calm. But it hinted at darkness. In the long run it was important.
Slowly it eased into mind:

spoken words echoed from within; beyond the wall. They spoke of the future, how they were going to run the cities, the country, the world. Argued about money – where were they to get it from? Discussed the rebels and those that fought for the dead old orders, about what to do with them. Weapons, were asked, how can he fight them, we need new weapons, the said. A tangent formed in the meeting, breaking from the natural order they snarled and cursed at each other over the problems afflicted with their wars.
Until a silence was called, shouted at them, from their leader.
Images found the hole in the wall as the meeting returned to order. At least for several minutes. Seated at the outside edge of a square shaped table, the councillors and advisers talked and read from their notes. Far to the side, King sat listening to the others speak. He only made comments when questions were directed to him.
Behind him in the shadows stood his guard. Who hadn't moved since the meeting began, it appeared. No one asked for his input, no one looked to him.
King called the meeting to an end after several hours; no one looked dismayed. They would be back again the following day to bring forth the same points. Again.
King, himself, waited until everyone was gone before rising. He exhaled with great force and called for his guard to follow. Fourth emerged, bored scratching his beard. He muttered something about rats in the walls but followed his employer.
His employer. How long had they been working with one another.

Defeated, tired. Walt sat and waited, what was the point in doing anything else. The following would come in short enough time – not long enough time to do anything anyway. He slumped into the back of his wooden seat and he was content to wait.
But his mind wasn't.
It thought on the past event, fresh in his mind. He'd been so stupid, they'd been so stupid. Him and the Dealers. After the boat incident all those years ago, after the murder of the elder brother, after the murder of the younger brother. He still hadn't been able to believe King and Fourth were working together. How long he'd asked himself then. Probably just after Tenth - only that made sense.
Dwelling on these things wasn't something he liked doing, hated Remembrance already did that.
Another image was coming now, and he could only feel delight despite all his hatred of the ability. It was one of his favourites. An ending of a tale. The last meeting with an assassin.
Also a trap:

for whatever reason they were packed. Unusually so, especially for this time of day. People from all sorts of lives were out and about. The problem was that none of it felt coincidental, that everything felt forced into being that way. Some could be innocent in the matter. It felt like a trap, a trap for someone important.
Fourth was there, in front, the crowds parting around him. He had his bow drawn and aimed. He fired.
Everything shifted to the side in a mock attempt to avoid the arrow. Unneeded as the arrow went wide. Shifting back to the assassin, a pair of arms put themselves up protectively. The hard wood of the bow smashed into crossed arms, Fourth was using it as a blade.
Pushed back to give a full view of Fourth. Only to see the assassin come in with another swipe. Hands appeared instinctively grasping the wood in mid-flight, one tugged toward. Whilst the other open up to deliver a harsh open push into Fourth's chin.
Shock formed on the assassin's face, he stumbled back several steps. The arms moved after him, before everything twisted to the opposite side. Briefly a leg was seen in the arm. It crunched into Fourth's side. Forgotten now the bow was dropped and the knife was drawn. The assassin grinned, now, something savage. Furious he leapt with the knife.
The bladed edge scraped a shallow wound along one of the arms, the left. It made little difference, Fourth was off-balance. The right hand threw him to the ground. Everything followed Fourth to ground, one of the hands had a knife now. It impaled Fourth's back to his heart.

It gave no pleasure now that the image had gone. All the elated feeling prior dissipated to the complex sensation of discontent intermixed with horror. He'd killed the assassin, avenged the parents he'd never known – it had been easy to do in the end. But it had never felt right, it gnawed at the back of his mind even now. He was a killer.
Never had he even learnt the dead man's name.
Anger that had been there for so long was gone. How many years ago did he kill them? Why had he felt the need to strike then. He wished he hadn't. The feeling wouldn't go away now. He should have ran away, live out a miserable life in some small township.
But the past was the past.
Walt remembered planning and plotting for Fourths downfall - he had taken up odd forms of training in preparation for the final conflict between them.
In the end it had become impossible to leave the city, King had seen to that. People had been looking for him. A loose end.
Deliberately he'd walked into a trap.
Thinking heavily he didn't notice the coming of the next. Something completely unplanned but, at the time, enjoyed.
Walt let it come:

few were seated here, a robed man hiding himself from the world was on one stall. He drank some heavy beer, looking at the counter. The man serving gave a quick nod to the door. A pair sat at a table talking lowly. A place was free beside the robed figure; the hands pulled it back with casual ease.
The robed man gave a quick glance before turning back to his drink. Then his eyes flashed back with recognition followed by hostility. He pushed his stool back and reached angrily but the hands moved quick out of reach. But the robed man guarded the door. A staircase at the back of the room led to a door – the hands pushed it open, a hall followed and at the end another staircase. They turned into a door, the hands once again pushing them open with great force. The sky, the roof met them.
Everything turned, to meet King. No longer a leader, just a man with nothing much to live for any more. Vengeance for what was lost was what he wanted. He drew a knife.
The hands blocked King's first attack, but King was quick and he came again. Leaving a shallow cut alongside the one Fourth gave the hands. The hands pushed into a attack, King blocking with ease. King extended his leg with a fierce kick sending everything backward, he continued forward but both hands came up in time. One grabbing a hold of King's shirt, the other grabbed the knife hand; everything began tilting.
Struggling to dislodge the hand, King missed the moment when everything closed into his face. He stumbled back surprised, he missed the hand crush into his face, missed the moment the knife flew away useless. Didn't see the hand punch his gut, only felt the affect. He bent over in pain, a foot swung into his back.
King stumbled forward.
Over the ledge.
The hands hesitated, wanting to check. But everything moved away.

He sighed. Everything had ended then.
Or before then, if he remembered truthfully. King had been broken down and destroyed by his own government. King had almost become powerless overnight – he had grasped at the edges of the moving trying the draw himself back into power, they said.
He was older and not as ambitious as the others vying for control.
He stared into the wooden table remembering this with a sad smile on his face. There were many days when he missed King, not as a friend, not even as something who wanted him dead. He'd meant something the King, if only a defiance, and King had recognised that. King had known him, had made it known that he existed.
It was odd that the following held no memory of it's own so close to the present. Only a feeling of relaxation tugged edges of his mind for several long seconds. After King's second death, his life had become his own for the first time. He'd needed to rest to work out what to do with himself.
There was only one more between Remembrance and himself, the present was around the corner. The last of the poison began to fade.
Surprise:

The hands held Fourth's bow, it was drawn and ready to be fired. Their target walked the street below. He hadn't looked up, not yet, didn't realise that his life was over in just several moments. His eyes were on the ground he walked, trying not to get noticed.
They had been his streets once, until he'd lost them to others. They had wanted him dead ever since, a loose end, they called him. King was nothing like he once was, a shell walking to something new, his ambition now gone.
The hands hesitated, they didn't fire the arrow. They set the bow down.

Walt did learn some things after all. Like self control.
Walt didn't know how King survived the fall, didn't want to know and didn't care any more. He hadn't seen him since holding the bow and never wanted to again.
Walt sighed and looked at the table before rising to his feet. The night of remembrance was over once more, indeed early sunlight was beginning to pour through the tiny window hitting the opposite wall as a thin bright sliver. He was tired from everything that he'd been through but a spare shirt waited for him.
Each passing took longer now - next year the length would increase.
He slid into the fresh shirt and splashed a little water onto his face. He drank another cup too.
Today, now, it, was the present and Remembrance waited for importance. Whether a meeting with King occurred and disrupted him or not; he was happy on this day for the first time. Ever. It was something new and strange for him. But.
It was his birthday, after all, and he did feel like celebrating.
Walt opened the door and stepped out into the world.

[Elyon_Daine]

Layer’s of Pain
By Elyon_Daine
WARNING!: This story may contain descriptions of dark creatures and outlandish people. Though it may be fine to some not all are tolerant of these things. Please watch out!

Apocalypse. Whenever the word crosses one’s mind it always seems to lead to religion. People screaming, buildings burning, earth trembling, fires of hell consuming all. But what most people don’t realize is that often times an apocalypse is linked to the celebration of an individual’s birth, or many other uncommon events. If you think this will have a happy ending then you might as well just close this window. Although, I cannot assure you it won’t be.

Elsia, an average woman in the midst of spewing chaos, looked around the dim room she vaguely remembered. Was she in another home again? Having not slept for weeks, due to being on the run, her days and thoughts had become rather jumbled. With a heavy sigh she sat up from the mattress-less bed. With her back hurting yet again, from lack of cushion, she stretched lightly to relieve some of the pain.

Elsia turned her attention to the door as she heard footsteps approaching. Weary of whom it might be. She stood, grabbing the metal bat at her side, and walked over to the side of the door. She held her breathe as the footsteps got closer. A figure appeared just beside her and without any warning she swung the metal bat at the figure. A direct blow to what she guessed was the stomach.

With a heavy grunt, the figure doubled over in pain. From the sound of it this person must be a man. Elsia cautiously moved in front of the man to get a better look. “Seeing how you’re in pain, I’m going to guess you are still normal . . . right?” She asked him seriously. “No shit lady. . .” the man said in a deep, pained tone.

The man stood up finally after a few minutes. “Who are you anyways?” He asked her lightly. “. . . Elsia. Elsia Killian. Who are you?” she asked in return, having been hesitant a bit before. “The names Nathan Gemini. Was it really necessary to hit me with a metal . . . bat?” he asked as he rubbed his stomach lightly. “At least it wasn’t your head. That’s my usual target.” She said seriously.

Nathan shook his head lightly as he watched her. She seemed oddly familiar to him, but he just couldn’t pinpoint it. Elsia grabbed her bag and a few things she left out. Putting her bag over her shoulder, she was ready to get going now.

A loud crash could be heard from downstairs; the sound of glass falling to the ground, shattering into millions of pieces. Both Nathan and Elsia went to the stairs quietly. Elsia peeked down the stairs and saw some people . . . but they weren’t normal like Nathan and her. Their moans, staggered movements, and dazed gazes proved that enough.

She quickly turned around and went back upstairs. Nathan followed her without a word until they reached the room once again. “We’re definitely not getting out that way. Any plans?” He asked her. Elsia was digging inside her bad for a moment until she pulled out some thick rope. She said nothing as she set the rope up tightly. Good thing she had rope with her.

Putting her bat away quickly she tested the rope and began climbing down. Although she was an experienced climber, she had to go down slowly so as not to make too much noise and grab the attention of those inside. Once Nathan had climbed down as well she harshly tugged on the rope and it came down. Good, this way Elsia didn’t need to go searching for a new one.

Nathan followed behind her quietly just thinking, trying to remember why she was so familiar, and where he had met her before. Elsia noticed his staring and somewhat felt irritated by it. “Why are you staring at me?” She asked him seriously. “You seem familiar . . . like I’ve seen you somewhere before.” He answered seriously. With that she sighed heavily. “You were my brother-in-laws best friend.” Elsia explained simply. “Right! Your Logos’ wife, Lilia’s, sister. No wonder you looked do familiar.” He stated finally remembering who she was.

They moved quickly as sounds could be heard from dark corners of each street. It was getting much more dangerous out. With so few normal people around they needed to be extra careful. But with that in mind Nathan began thinking . . . what had happened to Logos and Lilia?

With the sky gloomy and the air cold, it was time for them to move faster and find a safe place before night came. The night-time always posed a more dangerous threat. Soon enough they came across an old bakery. Seemed safe, and it was small enough that they didn’t need to worry about other rooms . . . and those things.

Heavily sighing, Elsia sat down behind the counter. Nathan leaned against it as he watched the doors, which were barricaded. Silence was thick between the two for a long moment. Thoughts racing through each of their minds, but it seemed only Nathan would speak up. “What happened to Logos and Lilia?” He asked her seriously.

There was a long stretch of silence before Elsia actually spoke, “I killed them both. They were among the first to get . . . infected.” She said in a rather low tone. Nathan looked to the side for a moment, “Sorry.” She shook her head lightly, “It’s fine. Lilia knew it was going to happen . . . all of it. It’ll get worse tomorrow. So don’t hope for something better.” Nathan could tell Elsia wasn’t saying something. As if she was not telling him something.

“What are you not telling me, Elsia?” Nathan asked her rather seriously. “What are you talking about Nathan?” She asked as she glanced up at him. “You know what I’m talking about Elsia. Spill it.” He said in a low tone. She sighed heavily as she stood up and leaned against the counter opposite Nathan. “Nate . . . you know tomorrow’s my birthday right? Well once midnight comes all hell will break loose.” She said in a low, serious tone. Nathan was a bit suspicious about all of this. Those were things that only really happened in movies.

Hours passed slowly as Elsia watched the sun set and the moon cast dark shadows outside the pockets of light. They would need to keep guard now. It seemed as though it would be getting very dangerous soon. Elsia stretched lightly and looked at Nathan, “I’m going to go and check the back door to make sure it’s all locked.” She said simply and headed to the back with her bat. She sighed lightly and looked at the door. It was barricaded as well. Good. She let her guard down for a moment and when she turned around she was face to face with one of them, great. She wasn’t prepared for that either so she stumbled back lightly. Out of nowhere, a large knife went through the things forehead. “You should be more careful next time.” Nathan said to her as that infected fell to the ground limp. She took a breath of relief and shook her head lightly. “ . . . Umm thanks.” She said in a low tone and rubbed the back of her head.

Nathan extended his hand to her and she took it after a long moment. Elsia felt like a fool for having him protect her. But what was she to do? She could be on guard 24/7. She sat down on the counter once they got back to the front and rubbed her forehead lightly. It was almost midnight, and she couldn’t lie. She felt really scared. Nathan sat next to her and took her had in his. “Stop worrying so much. Besides you have me around.” He said with a slight wink. Elsia shook her head lightly as she then looked at him. They had been really good friends a while back too. But it seemed like she had lost touch with many people when she went over to Korea for a year.

Now it was seconds away from it turning midnight. Elsia’s hands were even shaking. She closed her eyes as she now only felt Nathan’s hands on hers. 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . And with that the old clock in the city rang out. It was her birthday, and the day the world would end. With that a large rumbling sound resonated from the center of the city. Elsia opened her eyes now to the sound of concrete breaking. That wasn’t good . . . not at all. She jumped when a tenticale suddenly shot up from the ground out of nowhere. Quickly wrapping around her leg, it began to drag her out of the bakery. But luckily she was holding onto Nathan’s hand and a metal bar that ran through the ground. Nathan quickly cut it off.

“We need to get out of here now!” Nathan said quickly as he grabbed Elsia’s hand and rushed over to the now broken door. They rushed through the city as the ground cracked underneath their feet and rather… strange things began to emerge. Some would say monster’s others would call them demons. Large, gray, beady eyes, and sharp rotting teeth. Claw like hands and feet walking towards them. But it didn’t matter how far they were, for this … being, this being could stretch its arms and grab them instantly. This was what had happened intern.

Elsia struggled against its grasp as Nathan tried to hold onto her and pulled her back over to him. This was not turning out so good. It seemed like Elsia’s fears, and Lilia’s predictions had come true. Quickly pulling Elsia to itself the being slammed her to the ground. With a strong grip Nathan went along for the ‘ride’ and landed with a thud. Stabbing her straight through the side she grunted in pain. So now it was going to torture her too? She should have listened to her sister when she had the chance. She wasn’t going to have a family . . . or be able to share her life with that special someone. Someone like Nathan.

Tears escaped her eyes lightly as she still struggled against the beings grasp. How was she going to get away from all of this? She looked up at Nathan with a number of emotion’s showing in her eyes: Sorrow, Fear, . . . Love. Nathan shook his head lightly. “Don’t you dare give up on me you stubborn fool!” Nathan said as he managed to get her free of that horrible being. He hugged her tightly and was about to pull away too. But Elsia stopped him, “Nathan. . . I’m sorry. Thanks for being here though…” She said to him. She knew what was coming next. She cupped his cheeks lightly and kissed him passionately before she was completely stabbed through the chest.

__________________________________________________ __________________________________________________

With a sudden shock Elsia shot up from her position. What type of dream was that? She put her hand to her chest as she realized it was only a dream…. A simply dream that had scared the crap out of her. She looked around…. And noticed she was in a cage. Somewhat like a large bird cage. Wait… where was she? Looking around all she noticed were dark clouds of ash falling. Magma flowing below her while bellows of cries came from other cages and echoed across… this endless world. Then she remembered what had happened. Elsia had gone after her parent who had been missing for twelve years and nine months since she was eleven.

Elsia looked around to see if she could find her parents. Where were they? Finally she noticed a large, ominous creature grabbing hold of them. She stood up and rushed to the edge of the bars. “You let them go you pathetic scum!” She yelled over at it. Others warned her loudly not to do that. But she did not listen as she growled angry threats at the beast. With large horns black eyes and an eerie aura that would cripple even the strongest of warrior it looked over to her. “These are your parents.” It stated rather than asked in a twisted tone. A vicious grin spread across its face revealing black rotting teeth as if to taunt her. Oh it was not taunting her at all. No.

You see this beast knew that it was Elsia’s birthday. Her 24th birthday to be exact. Her parents had made a deal with him, “keep the child alive” they had beckoned with the creature when she was just two years of age. “Make it so that she can at least have a descent life before it all ends. We will service you when the age comes.” They had continued with this deal. But the brute had made his own deal with them to keep her alive. “On her 24th birthday she will be mine forever. Unless you unselfishly give your life to me.” And with that her parent’s sealed their fate. For her parents would never sell their daughter out to keep their own lives.

The being took them in one hand and tossed her parent’s into its mouth. With a loud echoing crunch he chewed on them not even sparing pain. No, he would not be merciful, for mercy was that of the higher and he ruled below. Elsia reached out to try and stop this, but only a roar of laughter could be heard of this beast. She cried out in agony and pain but to no avail. It would not bring them back, the very people who had disappeared from her life so abruptly when she was only 11 years old.

A large gust of wind knocked her down, not only her but the cage as well. Plummeting into the dark abyss of magma below, she screamed out. Everything went black. With an abrupt halt she opened her eyes to see the shinning blue sky above her head. What was this? With a heavy sigh Elsia sat up and noticed she had been on the ground. She stood slowly and dusted herself off. This was odd. Why would something like this happen to her?
It didn’t matter now. Although she knew now that no one in her family was alive anymore. Her sister, her mother, and even her father were now dead. They had not died the way she had seen before. But in other rather odd ways. She walked away from the large empty court yard and into the busy building. She was greeted by the owner with a warm smile and an offer for food. Denying it politely she walked away and headed down a hall. Seemingly passing two rather unfamiliar men she turned the corner.

It seemed as though they were going to follow her. Passing another gentleman who starred for the briefest of moments she quickly turned the corner. Knowing those men were following her. It rather annoyed her greatly. She shook her head lightly as she saw the same gentleman as before. Once passing him as the crossway he grabbed her hand and pulled her over to him. The men who had followed her going in a different direction, they seemed to have lost her, to her relief. “Thank you.” She said to the gentleman softly. “It was a pleasure. I am Lee Kim Hyung. I’m sorry if I was to rash. But it seemed as though those gentleman did not have good intentions.” He said respectfully. With a gentle smile Elsia nodded. “And I thank you. I am Elsia Killian. I apologize but it seems that you are new in these parts.” She said simply.

With a nod, Hyung began to talk to her about how he had gotten there in the first please. Unfortunately he was cut short when one of the women who often came to the building gave her a sharp slap across the face. “How dare you talk to such an esteemed guest after being gone for three months without a trace!” She yelled at her. Three months? Really, was that all it was? It felt like 10 years. It was ten years. So then . . . was it shorter here? Elsia thought to herself. “Learn your place and keep away from this man. He is the head of the company and you have no right. You and your family are below us all. You’re lucky Lady Yuki is even letting you stay here!” the woman carried on as if to rant endlessly. Thus is such, my terrible life. Dealing with this so much… but I do have to say, Lee Kim Hyung is a very attractive man… That’s all she could really think as she glanced back at Hyung while she was being pushed away from him brutally.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And that is the end of it for now. Well if anyone was very interested in the story I could always continue it….. though it would take more time, and thinking. xD I’m sorry it was sooooo short! I got lucky with the elimination of the restriction. I hope you all enjoyed it. Thank you!

[Dirzrahel]

An Mactíre ina Bhaile

“The wolf in his home, what it says,” I answered a patron at the bar. He was a glassy-eyed sort, full of whiskey and nuts and just about nuts as well. Mr. McKay was a regular at the bar – and regularly did he ask what the sign meant over the bar – like an idea bulb over my head. I didn’t much mind, after all, he tipped well. Worth keeping a good tipper. My fingers tapped in rhythm as the jingle in the background grew and grew, an old song playing that reminded me of old times. I was what, twelve years old when this song came first to my ears? The rare ould times. Haha, ironic that the same song was playin’ in the bar! Mr. McKay ordered another hit, and my hands went to work with a jigger of whiskey and a bottle of Guinness. In another moment, the old codger sat and enjoyed his drink. Such was the life nowadays. Dad gone, bar to meself. He went down in a blaze of glory, the leprechaun bastard. He went skydiving because he said he wanted to do it before he got too old, and decided to go do it over the Scottish highlands. I didn’t recommend the idea, telling him to wait until the storms died down so the wind wouldn’t carry him. I think that egged him on even more, because as usual, he does the opposite of what I say. He went during the stormiest day and refused to have a partner, claiming it to be not his way of life. Personally I think he was referring to homosexuality, not safety. He was a prejudiced man for sure.

So, yes, that’s right. He went into a small little plane piloted by a drunken oaf (keep in mind that’s Scotland, lads and lasses) and got over the highlands, parachute ready. He didn’t hesitate in the slightest when the word “Jump” sounded off, and down he went. The director of operations had nothing more to say to me, other than that me father plunged down and managed to release the ‘chute. The wind took him promptly, and he disappeared into the foliage below. Right when that man called me and told me about the accident, I gathered up all my friends and took a trip to Scotland in the fastest way possible. The highlands weren’t the most forgiving of forests, and although it’s terrible humor, a wolf would consider Dad a small lamb. So to balance things out I had me own wolf, Devil. He knew Dad’s scent like he knew the scent of cooked steak, and also adding the fact Devil would gnaw on father every now and then for shits and giggles. The Alaskan grey wolf looked at me with his deep, round yellow eyes and seemed to nod when we got to the beginning of the highlands; and in moments, he shot into the brush. Good boy. Brally, Tess, Tissandra, and I followed after with our flashlights and a compass to make sure we would not get ourselves lost if we found Dad, or if the situation was on the more negative side. Turns out I was right a little while later when a familiar howl went off in the distance. Devil had found the old leprechaun.

We wrapped his body in the bright orange parachute and I held him in my arms the entire way out of the highland forest. A few tears went down my face, I remember well. But father had always told me, don’t cry for the dead. The dead are gone, and cannot see the tears with their unopened eyes. Instead, yell out, yell far and wide, yell until your life flickers. For while tears simply drip and dampen, a voice can raise the dead with a racket of noise. So, at his funeral, I did as he said. I didn’t much care about the others there attending his death, because that was another thing Dad had told me. Don’t let me see you at a funeral, he said. They’re full of people who think a dead man can change their outlook on the life they still have. Naturally I got looks of terror shot at me while I yelled incoherently into the air, sometimes flooding into the old tongue of Gaelic, sometimes just something that came from the deepest part of my gullet. Devil was there beside me, taking his cue and howling into the air his terrible and mighty call of the wild. The loyal wolf died next, three years later. Here I stand from that eighteenth year as a thirty-one year old bar owner.

Mr. McKay banged his mug on the counter twice with sturdy thumps, a smile edging from his coarse shaven face, and crooked old teeth peeking out from his mouth.

“Gurt story laddeh. Yur fadder wush a grrreat mahn,” he slurred. I could tell right away he was done. Hell, he was always done by the eighth drink. The man had a good schedule.

“Tanks t’ere Mr. McKay, sah,” I said back, pushing him another mug of mix. He deserved another for complimenting my father.

This was the usual day of the bar. Mr. McKay drinking, me at the bar rambling, and the occasional passerby stopping in for a couple drinks. Killorglin was a rather modest town, but located a bit far away from the usual tourist attractions. I leaned on the bar, breathing deeply, letting the breath out slowly as my eyes closed. They opened and there was an apparition of my father, his arms crossed, spiritual corpse floating in the air. I suppose this was so he could actually look me in the eye for once, the damned leprechaun. His mouth opened and he chuckled at me and shrugged. No sound came out, and I tossed that aside as eerie. I closed my eyes and opened them again, the apparition was gone. Immediately I looked down at the shot glass between my hands and saw the tell-tale green liquid. I sighed audibly and tossed the shot in the icebox, slapping myself in the forehead as I remembered some youthful memories once more. Absynthe. The stuff was like LSD and alcohol mixed into one, and it didn’t help that the liquid blackout was made with wormwood.

I was sixteen years old, about four months away from going to live in America for a while. My good friends all gathered over at my house in the morning while I slept and were busy packing things up. Father didn’t really mind, in fact, he helped. A quick trip in the kitchen and he brought out four bottles of our own homebrew scotch. That was his helping action, I suppose. Good enough for me. I woke up to my birthday that day, and to the sight of four backpacks filled to the brim with supplies. I blinked a moment on the mahogany staircase; my hand supported me through means of the rail. While I thought about why four backpacks were lined up; Brally, Tiss, and Tess came out from below the staircase and yelled “Breithlá Sona!” straight into my face. That was a more sobering event than most, considering my hangover immediately disappeared. That was when I learned that hangovers can be cured by getting yelled at in the face, but then later in life, I learned that girlfriends don’t do it as well. That was also about the time I learned nagging only makes hangovers worse. My feet kind of faltered down the steps as I came down, whirled around the staircase and finally planted my feet on the floor; only to be swept up in one of Brally’s giant gorilla hugs and then a group hug with Tess and Tiss. Love was blooming everywhere, seriously. They were telling me about their plan for my birthday, and the plan was about backpacking Europe. But first came the day, and that was spent at the bar.

"Oi yah bloody brutish bonnet o' baby's quim c'mere and get yer doom yeh cornholin' squabba o flamin' fag!"

"Haha yeh drunk ole' ass rimmin' bastad, coom and get me loik yer chasin' teh ass o' yah male lova!"

A cursing contest, something that usually went on during the evenings of bar life. This was particularly special, since it was between me and Brally. I had gone first, and he had gone second, and now it was my turn once more—

“OI a male lovah yeahs? Lessh see wit yer doin wit yur pants ‘tere next tah Tess ‘dere me boyo and shee dat ‘ittle bit of pride yah cull eh dick yeh chicken arse fockin’ goat gropin’ horse fondlin’ wee man!”

Brally just stared at me, his eyes solid and a bit hazed over from the alcohol. For an Irishman of six feet and seven inches, he looked like a leprechaun from how soaked he was. The man had had nearly twenty car bombs, myself only seventeen. Though it seemed I had won the contest. He collapsed on the floor and blacked out for the night, we all laughed. I closed up the bar for the night and picked up the big brute with some effort, trying to stave off the drunken vision as I climbed up the rickety steps and placed him in the living quarters above the bar. I had added on this little part myself one summer, so I could just sleep at the bar and open it up, as well as close it. Better for business, because after all, I was the keep. The night waned away quietly, unlike the snores of Brally, and the morning came rather swiftly. In fact, it came coupled with a hangover. Though, I saw that coming, and didn’t pay any mind to it. Once you have enough, it’s easy to ignore them and act like you’re fine.

“I cull bullshat on that boyo,” Mr. McKay interrupted, banging his mug on the counter like he usually did, “Hangovas feel turrible! Don’ matta if’n yeh had em a lot. I kin this,” He continued, mumbling a bit afterwards.

Openly I sighed and brushed my brow with my hand, drying it of a bit of old sweat. The bar was rather hot today, even behind the counter. I went into the back for a quick moment and turned the air conditioning down. Very odd it was hot in the bar, since the temperature was at twenty-one Celsius.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t what happened that night. That was all a dream. The cursing contest and all. The truth is, apparently I blacked out after twenty-seven Irish car bombs and started moving around. Brally said I grabbed the keys to my Dad’s car and called up my uncle to ask him for a flight. My dear old Uncle Jack was a private pilot. How the recounting of the incident goes, I drove everyone to the air strip and we all huddled onto my uncle’s plane and set off toward destination unknown. That morning I woke up in a hotel and I looked around frantically. Tiss and Tess were laying next to me, Brally in his own bed. I woke them both up with a flick to their ears and looked at them quizzically.

“What the hell happened last night?”
Tiss and Tess looked at me and giggled a bit at each other. The twins were always so very devious.

“Mmmmmmm, we raped you!” Both of them started to giggle madly, and I rolled my eyes in turn.
“Seriously lasses, where are we? I don’t remember a thing.”
“Oh, we’re in Amsterdam. You blacked out and got us here, you stud you!”

It didn’t help they answered each time in unison. They had it out for me, I swear by Lou’s beard. Brally was chuckling in his bed, leaning on his hand as he lay sideways facing the three of us. He pointed to the backpacks and then to the door, giving us a wink.

“Well now, since you lovers have woken up, let us go on our trip, eh,” Brally said as he got up off the bed, “and let’s not let a drunken person drive us around or lead us, for that matter.”

The start was rough but worth it. We were in Amsterdam, after all. The air smelled ripe of fresh marijuana and broken bottles dotted the street here and there. We had breakfast at a lounge of some sorts and all of us had the special pancakes. They were definitely something, because I swear the blueberries were the best I’ve ever had in my whole entire life and the syrup was the richest tasting stuff shy of getting it straight from the tree. Later on I blamed the weed. Damn stuff is a great gimmick to make shitty food taste like a five-star feast. We loitered around in the district a bit, playing games like “Spot the Cumdumpster” and “Trip the Hoe”. The latter game was my favorite, since it involved expertly tossing a stone under the heel of a hooker so when she stepped, she fell on her knees. Yeah, it was an assholish game—but it was a damned lot of fun. Soon enough came the night when we went to the most exclusive club in the place, Bitterzoet. That was when I was introduced to something called a Neon, which was a shot of absinthe and cream liqueur. That was also the night where another interesting thing occurred that Tiss and Tess never let me live down for the rest of my life. That night happened to be my first experience with absinthe, and I can say, it was the last. After about fifteen shots of Neon, I sat down at the bar with Brally and blinked my eyes in amazement at what was before me. Somehow a Tyrannosaurus Rex was on the dance floor, and once it saw me, it stopped. Slowly it crept toward me, its mouth agape, and my own nearly hitting the floor in surprise. By report, I leaped off the bar stool and ran out of the club, the T-Rex chasing me the entire way. Of course, I was the only one to see this fabled dinosaur. Brally had been laughing at the bar hysterically until he fell over and started shaking as well as flailing around. Tess and Tiss said he kept yelling about squirrels and their army was attacking him. I used this to my advantage later on. The day after that night extravaganza we were walking along a row of trees and I stopped, pointed up and yelled, “Squirrel!”, like a madman. Brally ducked and ran like an idiot, he nearly ran a half mile before he realized what was happening then turned around and shot me the finger.

“Aye dat wash a bitch move boyo,” Mr. McKay interjected, taking a swig of his mug and then smacking it against the countertop once more. I looked at the old man and sighed, bringing my hand to my chest. It felt like I had a cramp, and it was still relatively hot in the bar. I breathed deeply and let it go, and the pain subsided.

As the trip goes, we went all over the place. We went to Russia, drank an obscene amount of vodka. We went to Italy, ate an obscene amount of pasta. We went to England, punched a Brit. We went to France, punched a mime. Went to jail. Fucking Frenchies. We were about finished with our backpacking adventure when Brally stopped us and offered his idea. He decided for our last stop, we would go to Ethiopia. Personally, I thought this idea was bollocks. Tiss and Tess agreed. Unfortunately, Uncle Jack flew us there anyway. I think Brally might have paid him off. There we were in Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, if you could even call it a city. The place was desolate, empty; no life whatsoever we thought could live here. We all walked into the middle of the city through the medinas and stopped, looking around as we saw stark naked children running around and adult men and women skinny as bone. I brought my water flask to my lips and drank deep, it was hot out. Only then did I realize I had done the most bastard action in the world, drinking water in front of Ethiopians. Brally’s eyes went wide and we immediately turned around and went back to my Uncle Jack’s plane. He had stayed, apparently, because he knew we would come back as soon as we got there. Good man. As our last stop we went to Scotland and mulled around a bit, mingling through cities to get to Castle Inverness over the loch. We always visited Castle Inverness every year, since it was the place where we first made our vow to always be there for one another. A childish notion, yes. Under the castle’s gaze though, that vow was made permanent by the lives of thousands of our ancestors. We took it quite seriously. After we got through all that sort of drama, we trekked back to Glasgow and got back on my uncle’s plane for home. I paid him back for all the flying he did, and he accepted it grudgingly. He didn’t like being paid by family, because he usually did everything for free for us and thought nothing of it. I wouldn’t hear of it. He wasted a lot of fuel.

“Aye er gurt end ‘tah the store boyoo,” Mr. McKay slurred. I could tell he was quite drunk at this time. The pain came back in my chest and my body was burning up, my eyes grew wide in shock. I held my chest with my hand and tried to breathe slowly; a customer took one look at me and immediately dialed his cell phone for an ambulance. I collapsed on the floor, I was shaking, and then I blacked out.

A day later I was in Dublin at a very nice hospital. Tiss and Brally were beside me, they were asleep, their hands entwined. They were married now, after all. Tess was on my right; her head was propped up against my thigh. The fabric was a bit damp near her eyes, so I figured she had been crying. I brushed he head softly with my fingers, her red locks dancing around my index and tangling themselves within my grip. Her eyes opened slowly and she raised her head, her eyes red and puffy. She took her hand and held mine, kissing it softly and then rising and hugging me while I was still in bed. She backed away a bit, and from the way her mouth was twitching, I knew she was about to say something.

Slap.

Her hand came across my face so hard I swear I was seeing stars when I looked back at her. Brally and Tiss had woken up, their eyes a bit teary as well, but their mouths were upturned in laughter. Tess looked at me with anger and pointed her finger at me.

“Don’t you EVER do that shit to us again you fucking bastard!”

I blinked in astonishment and shrugged, a smile coming to my lips. Her face suddenly got a bit brighter too, hugging me again as she giggled with joy. Tiss and Brally started talking then, regaling me of what happened after I had the heart attack and then explaining what the doctors did to me. They had watched the entire time. I could tell they were with me the entire time, because when I looked down between my legs, “We were here” was marked on my penis in purple sharpie pen. Wonderful. We’re middle-aged and still pulling pranks that make us look like kids!

“So, what happened after you found our prank,” Brally asked, “did you freak?”

I told him no, and sighed deeply. I had been in the hospital this entire time, telling them the story of how I ended up in the hospital and then the events surrounding it. They wanted to hear their part in it, so I added it, of course. They already wanted to meet Mr. McKay, since he sounded like a fun guy to have around at the bar. I told them sometime to come by back home and stay at my home for a little while, and that they were always welcome. I told them an old wolf could use his pack back.

[spirits breath]

Sound night, and a eventful memory
By spirits Breath

The sound of chirping birds awoke her. A mother with three cubs. The father giving a lazy twitch of his leg. Things weren’t as they should be, a place that even a fox could not protect itself from the smallest of avians. Because as much of a lie to say everything was alright, it only tried to cover up the facts of war.
The very start of it, before the war. Knosh was a proud figure. His closest friends were a prime example of the peace that was there. Birds able to walk on the ground. Fox’s able to walk into a wolf’s territory. Even a snake could help raise a hawk, despite the natural urges for the snake to eat the eggs, or the hawk to eat the snake. It was peace.
Knosh himself used to lie on his back, as a mouse gently ran her small paws along his belly. His leg could never move faster, or him to find a way to be out of breath from just having his stomach rubbed alone. As the feelings dissipated, he spoke with a bit of authority, yet kindly enough to a newborn. “That always hit’s the spot. Sorry I can’t really let you know how it is Velos. But perhaps I can ask something of you.”
The small mouse lifted up her brown head and gave a warm smile. Her voice small in nature, but it sounded a bit winded. “Is it about Amanda again?” The fox lowered his ears and dipped his head down in shame. “Figures… Alright how about this, we could always go talk with her. Do I have to remove a couple of things so that you have an excuse not to?” He head stretched upwards as she rose to her hind legs.
For him, he simply jumped to his feet and raised his rump into the air. Ready to pounce. “I get you, but I am afraid to shedding about this.” she shook her head in annoyance before jumping on to his back. “Velos, mind lending some advice?”
She crawled next to his ear and whispered. “You are going to talk to her, tell her you love her. Even then, you have been friends since childhood. And if I were you, I would hurry. She is quite a catch and it is only a matter of time before she is taken by someone else.” She backed array from his ear and held tightly to the fur on the back of his neck. “Mush Knosh!”
Running with the combined vigor of a young male, and a young male driven by a lusting love, he ran over to the field which he would normally find Amanda. That is if she isn’t out sniffing flowers with Mileen again.
Twigs broke, dirt kicked up, and the near collision with a dozen or so trees, then the enjoyable break into the clearing to a halt. There she was, gray fur to die for, enough muscle on her to take down a small bear in a game of tug of war with a fish. Her fur was always so clean and he could swear he smelled a light pear scent on her all the time. Knosh on the other hand stood there gawking like a fool as he watched her.
An annoyed voice came from behind him. “Of all the times.” He head pressed against his red fur and then bit hard on his skin to stir up a loud yip of pain. “Sorry, but go to her. Now!” He had little choice but to comply as Velos aligned herself to his rear a bit more. “There you go. Now be normal to her. Not a cub like you used to be who lets a mouse order him around.” She gave a squeaking laugh.
Gradually, Knosh made his way up to Amanda. His ears dipped down and his tail moved in-between his legs. “Amanda, hope you know I am terrified at how you would react.” He felt movement at his hip. “I wish to have you at my mate.” He spoke with enough fright in him that he could hardly look at her.
The wolf spoke up with a playful growl. “Velos, mind going to see how Mileen is holding up for me? You know him differently, and perhaps you can get through him for me. Thanks.” After waiting for Velos to leave, she walked up to Knosh. “About time, was getting worried that you would be too afraid to ask. Though how about you ask again without Velos nearby to bite you in the rear this time?” She cocked her head to the right as her tail thumped once behind her.
“Amanda.” He swallowed hard. “Would you like to be with me for life? Have our own cubs? I have loved.” His words were cut off as Amanda lumped on him in a light hugging motion as she ended up on top of him on all fours.
“Yes I would. Now lets go pay a visit to Mileen and Velos. Give them the good news. “ She turned and began to trot over to a small pond, Knosh following in suit. “He has been worried about how his body is molting yet again, and that he was tired of being the only snake around here. Swear sometimes I think he wants to be alone, yet is too worried to ask. I can’t essentially bite him and tell him to ask someone who he doesn’t even know.” she gave a light bark and a expression that tried to bring shame onto her newly proclaimed ‘husband’.
They waited by the pond, listening in for while. Silently observing Mileen gazing into the water with a mouse behind him. He seemed to speak as if depressed, yet held a strong sense of trust. “Velos, you have been a great friend to all who know you. But lately, since we are all coming of age where we would be finding mates, and having kids. Sure Amanda and Knosh had it for each other since birth, but I feel as there is no room for me in this. Yeah sure there is always room for me with them, but you know how I am.”
“You need to stop worrying so much. Remember the first time you came to my home?”
“How could I forget. Your parents never let us get enough time for you to blink. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Simple enough. Something that would eat me, had he not be such a dear friend, would need to get in touch with himself. I think you just need something to sink your fangs in. The venom must be leaking into your small head.” She gave a light tap at his head and then giggled.
His body loosened it’s coil and ushered Velos to rest in it. “you are killing me by all this. And what would I bite, you?” He paused before he flicked her nose with his tongue. “Not really, but perhaps a carcass or something. But another thing is. Can you get out of my head?”
With an innocent tone, she ran her paws long his body to try and pull him out of his coil. “you are going to get out of your coil and is going to help me check on Knosh. That fox is not at all able to be left alone for a minute. Especially when the only one who would like him is us, or Amanda. Which by the way, I think she had something in her fur when I last saw her.”
A growl from the brush, and a few trots forward. The wolf spoke up as if she just figured out someone’s secret. “You know, we heard everything, And Velos, for someone so small, you sure speak pretty big. Do you honestly think you can pull Mileen? Let alone against the direction of his scales? But how about we go wake up Selena. Get that birdbrain something to wake up to. Not to mention to keep you two from making better news than us. You do look good together by the way.” A snicker followed in wake.
Although if he was awake, he should have heard it. Considering his tree was just across the pond. This time, the ever classic being wound up and trapped before being able to react was in in order. Velos’s role in being the second one able to climb had the in case things happen role. Being woken up without being able to spread your pair of wings can be the fine line of joking and being cruel.
Mileen’s coil tightened once he made three loops around his friend. His head nudging at the white feathered skull of his friend. “Selena, how are you still sleeping?” He tightened his grip a little before loosening it. Knowing that if done too hard it could stop his dear friends ability to breathe.
Struggling against impossible odds, he out of instinct bend down and bit Mileen in the side hard enough to draw blood. “Don’t ever wake me that way Mileen.” His voice was angry as could be, as well as worried on what he just did. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to…” His beak parted in fear as the snake began to drop from his sides.
With a light shriek, Velos leaned over the nest and passed the news. “Get leaves, and if you can thread of some kind. Hurry!” With her small paws, she squeezed above the wound. “Selena, how could you? After the second time this week, you didn’t realize the pattern? “
“I didn’t intend to hurt him. If I was conscious enough to see just his face, I wouldn’t of. Mileen, I am sorry.”
Weakly, and pained, his head lifted up momentarily. “I forgive you. And you have a sharp beak.” He sighed in pin as he squirmed as the pain ran through him. “Velos, hold on. This happened for a reason. I mean considering how tomorrow is my hatch day and all. But since now seems like the time for it, Velos. Do you love me?”
Shock seemed to get to her as she stumbled as if rabid. Her mouth opened to say words, but nothing came out. She waited a minute before letting her whiskers tickle his underbelly. “I do now. But you are both out of the blue, and confused. I am a mouse. And you are a snake. Both our parents wouldn’t allow us to love each other. Your parents would be happy to eat me. And my parents would probably poison you.”
“They don’t have to know.” he looked up at Selena. “Can you help me to get down once this starts to heal. I need to make it to tomorrow.” His tongue flicked out with a light smile behind it.
“As you wish little snake. Though I have always wondered with my kind and yours. Back before the peace we have now. Why doesn’t your kind go and simply bite? Which in what I mean, I will get you something for your hatch day. Will just have to trust me with it.
Life moved on from there to the point that the balance was broken. It started with the avian, wanting more land for their own hunting. Making their population boom for the excuse behind it. Though Knosh would never let a bird. Even a hummingbird that was neutral in all of it would not be allowed near his children. After what he saw happen to Mileen. Taken away. And being so helpless to do anything except run after the hawk until his body could not move anymore. His sight of the hawk gone as he shouted his apology into the air.
Amanda crept up beside Knosh, nuzzling him softly on the cheek. “It is almost a year since it happened. He was my friend as well. Just try to cheer up so that our kids can see who you really are. I have been talking with Selena. He has him. Safe even. You just have to get over it long enough to try and work things out.” she nuzzled him again. “For the kids. And Velos. She is worried sick and she can’t go out and walk into the hawks land by herself.”
Knosh lowered his head shamefully. His voice soft and disheartened. “I will speak with Selena. But know this. That eagle could have done something to prevent this. He could have brought Mileen here, yet he doesn’t.”
“Knosh! He cannot. If he did, it would cause both of them to die. As long as he is alive, there is no reason for anyone to go into his home to figure out who is in there with him. Now go, I am sure Mileen could use you to talk with him. As well as Selena is your friend. Why else would he keep Mileen alive?”
With a light wag of his tail, he gave a tender lick to Amanda’s snout. “I will be back, anything you want me to get for the cubs. Tomorrow is their twelfth full moon. The day they were born. Still can’t believe you got all of them out of you. Males one question to have an answer for before they die.”
She pushed her hip against his hard. “Bring Mileen back. That’s it. He wanted a family before he left, and he is going to be part of ours. The cubs don’t know better right now, but say he is a relative.”
“just get Mileen. I will do that. And by the way. I love you with my heart still. And I am sorry if I was being a pain to you.” His fur pressed against him tighter. His tail bobbing behind him, and his hind legs moving up near his front as he ran to the sunrise.
Long after, his lungs burned, and his legs were a bit tired, he found himself outside of the hawks land. With a quick trot, he moved quietly over to Selena’s home and yipped out. “Selena. We need to speak. No actions, just words between us as friends.” A few branches with leaves wound to it thickly lifted up to give an opening for him to enter.
A voice rose up with a remorse of sadness. “Knosh. It is good to see you, but under circumstances I am deeply sorry for. Amanda told me if your cubs. Though you know I can’t fly down to your home and say hello right? Would you imagine. Me being in charge? Well a figure head, but I just want to say. Mileen has been doing better recently. Winter passed and did he eat some fish. But take him. I am unsure how much longer I can keep him secret. Especially since I doubt I got four more harvest moons to see.” he placed a wing onto the fox’s back softly. “I missed you my friend. We had the best of times when we were young. And we can say one thing. Never try to take things from bees.” He gave a strong laugh as he motioned Knosh over to a small tunnel. “He is in there. Has been building a small home down there to allow me to have a guest in here without his presence being known.”
After walking in slowly to the tunnel, he gave some audible sniffs and looked back. “You as a leader figure makes since. You would normally make the hawks your prey. And being taller than them helps as well. But may I ask, can you try to fix this. I know I am not the only one worried about it. But this war is something our kids do not need to grow up in. You understand that right?”
A small green head popped up and darted to Knosh. Coiling around him without any trouble or resistance. “Knosh! You have come at last! I was beginning to think you forgot about me. But I have been told that your kids are growing well. And that I had a place to stay that isn’t going to get me trapped in a bundle of feathers and beaks. No Offence Selena. I really would like to be able to move around and get heat from the sun again. Your feathers and wings are comfortable, but it inconveniences you. I will make it up to you. I promise that much.”
Puffing out his chest, Selena lightly ran his wing along the scaled body below him. “You have no need to. I will find you when this is over or before my time. I did it out of my kindness and because you are a dear friend. Though if you get caught, just make sure you have a feather of mine with you. Signals property. But the others would bring you back to me unscathed if they want to keep their feathers for the winter.” Bending back His beak held firm to one of his tail feathers as he pulled quickly to remove the loose feather. He then stuck it into Knosh’s fur. “Safekeeping until you are safe again. Now go before the village comes back and sees you both. And wish the cubs a healthy harvest for me.” He gave a smile before he lifted the branches out of the way.
The way back was longer, and filled with talk to catch up. Along with how Mileen managed to stay hidden for so long. Interesting as it was, once they made it to the small spot the fox called home, Amanda ran out with a smile large enough to show teeth. “Mileen!, please come in quickly. “ a small tear welled up in her eyes out of joy. Though the confused look from Knosh earned him a glare from her. “Go find something for the kids. And I can’t help but to feel emotional for the return of my childhood friend.”
The male fox lowered his head in compliance as Mileen slithered off of him. He gave a shudder as he felt the tail move along his spine. “Safe to say Mileen. You put weight on.” Amanda gave a snarl as she walked Mileen inside.
Almost as planned, the three cubs swarmed the snake. Licking him and sniffing him. Along with a few playful bites to get a good tail slap on the nose. “So, you three know what you are going to be getting from your uncle Mileen?”
The cubs ran around energetically asking what, and when. The female cub, Mariana, asked. “Mileen, it has been a full twelve full moons since I was born. I know what day it is. But can I ask you where you were my entire life?”
He stared blankly at her as he looked over at Amanda for help. “I. Well… I had a family of my own to take care of. But she doesn’t know your mom and dad like I do.” The small fox began to play with the others.
“Hold on. I have returned! And I found something you would all enjoy.” He trotted back out of sight to have his wagging tail enter sight again. His rear lifted as he began to pull the carcass of a deer. A gasp came from Amanda.
She spoke harshly and quietly. “what have you done? You killed a deer!”
“Sadly, I didn’t plus I would be covered in blood by then, and it would have taken far longer to get back. Besides what do you think I spent all of yesterday doing? These deer don’t drag themselves to our homes. Was dead before me, and of age. The only bite marks are the ones there from me dragging it.” he pulled it into the den. “Happy birthday everyone. And Selena, a eagle wishes you a happy birthday as well. But in all respect, lets let Mileen grab a leg first. See how thin he is. Could go for something that will but meat on his bones. And he will be here a while.”
Teeth moved to the leg, gnawing at the base of it until the bone was snapped and the leg was freed. Then it was moved over to Mileen, tasty juices dripping on the way as it was presented to him. “I expect you to do your creepy way of eating to it. Swear, it never gets old to see you eat things so large.” He turned and gave a bow. “Well… what are you waiting for? It is your birthday, now eat until you can’t move. And that I mean.”

(The twelve full moons and harvest moon both mean year in this. And hatch day means birthday)

[Merry]

The contest is now closed - thank you to all who participated!

We'll post the winner this week!

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