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Short Story Contest #4 - Great War Stories

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WhitePhoenix

WhitePhoenix

WhitePhoenix

Level 7
Joined
May 3, 2007
Messages
210
I'd like to join, here's a short wip.

Compliance is the first thing they should attribute to our epitaph. Marxist bunch, the lot of them; the reds of their lives painting the skies. . . The noise is hyperbolic now; particles of brown hued through the air after the last display, my hole lost some of its esteem. Every man whipped their faces as they stared onward into the glazing beaded horizon. The red became purple, the purple blue, and the blue black. Slowly we engaged only to be left with less then what we started, to force ourselves to press forward two less and three dry from the five started.
Significance is what our lives lack. We all know it, they call us dry. Those of us who haven’t tasted salt, who haven’t bled, patiently sitting in our hole of an existence, needlessly looking forward then back, right then left. Measuring up one another; there was a man to my left that I liked to do it with. He liked to shake, his rifle rattled a lot; I noticed him pop a pill yesterday to stop it. We’ve only been here two days and some of us are already rattled. I guess that’s what happens when you lose two so quick.
Holes riddled the meadow like it was spotted. It went on forever in either direction, met by a horizon of red to their side, of black to ours, and a mesh to either edge. A small village to the north, our right side, was our main objective in this whole monstrosity. Arrive, establish, and defend.
They spewed orders at us every now and then, sometimes to hide, other times to fire. It was all wasteful to me. I never hit anyone, I never saw anyone, the fog of misses made sure of that. I sometimes wondered if they were trying to spell their name or something. Imagine being a pilot and flying over this meadow to see that. Jack. Jack was here. Would the pilot laugh? Or be disgusted? We don’t have any artillery, so he would know it was them. Perhaps he’d think they couldn’t be that clever, not these barbarians. Maybe, or maybe he’d see something deeper in the display, an act of kindness.
“Fire!”
We scrambled to the top of our trenches, he popped another pill. We fired, the gleaming stream of automation went forward, and I saw something new. A spew of red caressed the fog with a grace of momentary silence, a kind of knife, thrust into your side. It was emotional, that feeling they try to prepare you for. The idiots charged our trench. I couldn’t breathe after realizing it; I killed one, then another, then him. His helmet fell off after I mowed him down, it was blonde, his face squared at the end, it had a very lifeless expression. His uniform was a dark green, two patches on the chest, one on the right side; the pants were tight fitting into the dark mountain boots. He was wearing a leather jacket of all things. I saw another one; his uniform was blue, with a similar setup for his jeans and hiking boots.
Slaughter is what it was. Uniform . . . that’s ignorant of me to say, they didn’t have any uniform. They were told to keep their feet dry, but they had no uniform. Well they weren’t dries now. I got over the hideousness of it all, of the barking dog and his orders. He would be a boxer if he were a dog; he has that sad kind of face, but the muscle and the bark to make you intimidated all the same.
 

Fussiler1

Fussiler1

Fussiler1

Level 19
Joined
Mar 16, 2009
Messages
3,681
WhitePhoenix said:
I'd like to join, here's a short wip.

Compliance is the first thing they should attribute to our epitaph. Marxist bunch, the lot of them; the reds of their lives painting the skies. . . The noise is hyperbolic now; particles of brown hued through the air after the last display, my hole lost some of its esteem. Every man whipped their faces as they stared onward into the glazing beaded horizon. The red became purple, the purple blue, and the blue black. Slowly we engaged only to be left with less then what we started, to force ourselves to press forward two less and three dry from the five started.
Significance is what our lives lack. We all know it, they call us dry. Those of us who haven’t tasted salt, who haven’t bled, patiently sitting in our hole of an existence, needlessly looking forward then back, right then left. Measuring up one another; there was a man to my left that I liked to do it with. He liked to shake, his rifle rattled a lot; I noticed him pop a pill yesterday to stop it. We’ve only been here two days and some of us are already rattled. I guess that’s what happens when you lose two so quick.
Holes riddled the meadow like it was spotted. It went on forever in either direction, met by a horizon of red to their side, of black to ours, and a mesh to either edge. A small village to the north, our right side, was our main objective in this whole monstrosity. Arrive, establish, and defend.
They spewed orders at us every now and then, sometimes to hide, other times to fire. It was all wasteful to me. I never hit anyone, I never saw anyone, the fog of misses made sure of that. I sometimes wondered if they were trying to spell their name or something. Imagine being a pilot and flying over this meadow to see that. Jack. Jack was here. Would the pilot laugh? Or be disgusted? We don’t have any artillery, so he would know it was them. Perhaps he’d think they couldn’t be that clever, not these barbarians. Maybe, or maybe he’d see something deeper in the display, an act of kindness.
“Fire!”
We scrambled to the top of our trenches, he popped another pill. We fired, the gleaming stream of automation went forward, and I saw something new. A spew of red caressed the fog with a grace of momentary silence, a kind of knife, thrust into your side. It was emotional, that feeling they try to prepare you for. The idiots charged our trench. I couldn’t breathe after realizing it; I killed one, then another, then him. His helmet fell off after I mowed him down, it was blonde, his face squared at the end, it had a very lifeless expression. His uniform was a dark green, two patches on the chest, one on the right side; the pants were tight fitting into the dark mountain boots. He was wearing a leather jacket of all things. I saw another one; his uniform was blue, with a similar setup for his jeans and hiking boots.
Slaughter is what it was. Uniform . . . that’s ignorant of me to say, they didn’t have any uniform. They were told to keep their feet dry, but they had no uniform. Well they weren’t dries now. I got over the hideousness of it all, of the barking dog and his orders. He would be a boxer if he were a dog; he has that sad kind of face, but the muscle and the bark to make you intimidated all the same.
Click to expand...

Damn, dude, that's a good story! But I'm not sure if we're allowed to write about things that really happened. It's not really clearly written in the rules, maybe you should ask Midnighters? o_0
 

alext

alext

alext

Level 7
Joined
Jan 18, 2010
Messages
61
WhitePhoenix said:
I'd like to join, here's a short wip.

Compliance is the first thing they should attribute to our epitaph. Marxist bunch, the lot of them; the reds of their lives painting the skies. . . The noise is hyperbolic now; particles of brown hued through the air after the last display, my hole lost some of its esteem. Every man whipped their faces as they stared onward into the glazing beaded horizon. The red became purple, the purple blue, and the blue black. Slowly we engaged only to be left with less then what we started, to force ourselves to press forward two less and three dry from the five started.
Significance is what our lives lack. We all know it, they call us dry. Those of us who haven’t tasted salt, who haven’t bled, patiently sitting in our hole of an existence, needlessly looking forward then back, right then left. Measuring up one another; there was a man to my left that I liked to do it with. He liked to shake, his rifle rattled a lot; I noticed him pop a pill yesterday to stop it. We’ve only been here two days and some of us are already rattled. I guess that’s what happens when you lose two so quick.
Holes riddled the meadow like it was spotted. It went on forever in either direction, met by a horizon of red to their side, of black to ours, and a mesh to either edge. A small village to the north, our right side, was our main objective in this whole monstrosity. Arrive, establish, and defend.
They spewed orders at us every now and then, sometimes to hide, other times to fire. It was all wasteful to me. I never hit anyone, I never saw anyone, the fog of misses made sure of that. I sometimes wondered if they were trying to spell their name or something. Imagine being a pilot and flying over this meadow to see that. Jack. Jack was here. Would the pilot laugh? Or be disgusted? We don’t have any artillery, so he would know it was them. Perhaps he’d think they couldn’t be that clever, not these barbarians. Maybe, or maybe he’d see something deeper in the display, an act of kindness.
“Fire!”
We scrambled to the top of our trenches, he popped another pill. We fired, the gleaming stream of automation went forward, and I saw something new. A spew of red caressed the fog with a grace of momentary silence, a kind of knife, thrust into your side. It was emotional, that feeling they try to prepare you for. The idiots charged our trench. I couldn’t breathe after realizing it; I killed one, then another, then him. His helmet fell off after I mowed him down, it was blonde, his face squared at the end, it had a very lifeless expression. His uniform was a dark green, two patches on the chest, one on the right side; the pants were tight fitting into the dark mountain boots. He was wearing a leather jacket of all things. I saw another one; his uniform was blue, with a similar setup for his jeans and hiking boots.
Slaughter is what it was. Uniform . . . that’s ignorant of me to say, they didn’t have any uniform. They were told to keep their feet dry, but they had no uniform. Well they weren’t dries now. I got over the hideousness of it all, of the barking dog and his orders. He would be a boxer if he were a dog; he has that sad kind of face, but the muscle and the bark to make you intimidated all the same.
Click to expand...

Very nice writing man, can't wait to see more. I'd buy the book any day ;)


the reds of their lives painting the skies. . .
Click to expand...
not "the red of their lives" ?

Every man whipped their faces as they stared onward
Click to expand...
not "Each man whipped his face as he stared onward" ?

His helmet fell off after I mowed him down, it was blonde, his face squared at the end
Click to expand...
The helmet was blonde, or the soldier? If it's the soldier, then he was blonde. I imagine it was his hair, so "His helmet fell off after I mowed him down, his hair was blonde, his face squared at the end" should be it ?

Well they weren’t dries now
Click to expand...
Not "Well they weren’t dry now" ?

he has that sad kind of face
Click to expand...
The rest of the paragraph is in the past tense, ("we scrambled", "the idiots charged", "I killed one", "I got over the hideousness") so switching to present again sounds a little funny, maybe it's just me though :)
 

grato

grato

grato

Level 5
Joined
Aug 7, 2008
Messages
93
nuuh said:
Why are the first quotations on the bottom instead of the top?
Click to expand...

If you are talking about my text, it is because I come from Austria. In german, you always place the first quotations on the bottom, so my text program does that automatically, and I am too lazy to change that right now. Maybe for my final version.
 

Freyleyes

Freyleyes

Freyleyes

Level 17
Joined
Jun 28, 2008
Messages
776
This is what I have so far, I know there is no war yet, but I am getting to it.

Over the seven seas, under the blue blanket that separates this world from the other, lived a man with the might of beasts, speed of cheetahs. Lion, the Mighty Man. Lion was no mortal man, he was a legend! Savior of the people! Stories of his bravery spread like wild fire through the nations, tales of how he defeated the seven headed hydra or killed the chimera with only his bare hands. Lion had saved a whole village from a pack of blood firsty Hungarian barbarians; he had no army, no special weapon that could use the power of the eye in the sky to burn his enemies. He only had himself, the power of one thousand men. People say that Lion was not raised by humans, but by lions. No one knew his real name nor did they know anything about him. He was a mystery; he never sought fame or fortune, only to help those that need it most. He would save a maiden in distress, a king from a martial coup, never wanting a kiss of bravery or a hill of gold. Where there was trouble, there was Lion, the Mighty Man.

The story that I am about to tell you is one of Lion’s most dangerous battles, the battle of the golden gates. The warlord of the red mountains had his eye on a small village, center to the raging ravine. The humble village had no gold nor diamond mines, they only had a rare fruit that only grew in that region, the Blue Orange. This was the most exotic fruit in the whole world; every king worth his salt had eaten this magical fruit. Our hero, Lion was on a journey through the Red Mountains, on his way to the kingdom of the yellow stars. He passed through a small village on his way. The villagers were kind and warm hearted. They greeted him in kind and offered him some of their Blue Orange. A hero on the road never refused a gift of food. As the sun set our hero set off into the distance, onward to the yellow kingdom, leaving the village with tales and fables of his journey. These where not to boast, but to entertain. Lion reached the peak of the Red Mountains, looking down on the village one last time. Nothing had ever struck him with horror as much as this sight, the once peaceful village was aflame, the bane fire spread through the straw roofs and into the orchards. If there was one thing that Lion could not bear, it was the suffering of the weak. With the speed of one thousand Lion rushed down the slopes, neither tree nor boulder could slow him down, breaking through them as if they were made out of paper. It did not take Lion more than ten minutes to cover the one hundred kilometer path back to the village. The village lay in ruin. Houses scourged to the foundations, trees burned through the roots. Lion knew this was no ordinary fire; it was a magical fire, Bane Fire, the dragon flame. No mortal man had ever lived to tell the story of a dragon hunt that succeeded, stories would always end in terror.
Lion was no mortal man, or so legend goes. He knew he had power that exceeded that of other men, speed that could not be matched, not even by beasts. But mortal he was. He had lost his parents when he was just a little lad. An army of skeletons led by an undead warlord raided their peaceful village one late winter’s night. The village was left with no single man nor woman standing, just the fourteen year old boy, Lion. With vengeance in his heart and rage in his eyes he sat out to kill the warlord. The warlord had power in his undead army, but was a weak man in flesh and bone. With the undead army released after the slaughter of the village, Lion had no trouble to overrun the old warlord. And with that the legend began. From that day on Lion became the savior of the people, a nomad on the road, traveling from village to village, doing what he could to help slay the forces of evil. Lion was no glory seeker; he was noble and true of heart. A man with a burning passion to save those that could not help themselves.

The sky was red with the blood of those that had lost their lives in this village. Winter winds caught the black ash from the pieces of wood still simmering. Lion knew what he had to do. Face the dragon. Normal people would just back away from such a task. To look the dragon in the eyes is most certain death. After saying his prayer to the fallen, he set out towards the red mountains to face the legendary serpent. Lion reached the peak of the Red Mountains. There it was, the serpent that could breathe fire. This beast was not like a wild lion or a bear. It was ancient, from times long lost. These creatures had a will of their own, they were not bounded by their instinct. This beast knew what it had done. And why Lion had come. Before confronting the dragon, Lion took one last look at the village from here. The setting sun illuminated the once peaceful and still village, know it’s just still.
 

Midnighters

Midnighters

Midnighters

Level 22
Joined
Jun 2, 2009
Messages
2,014
I will update the list tomorrow with those that have messaged me in the past week with their "I want to join" pms.

If you are not on the list, and have not messaged me, send me a message and I will add you with the others.

I am sorry for such the slow adding, I have been working a lot lately, and I haven't had time to add them.
 

Grey Nightmare

Grey Nightmare

Grey Nightmare

Level 20
Joined
Feb 24, 2009
Messages
2,999
naitsirk said:
What do you mean by that? It doesn't really tell me anything with what you're saying. Try building it up abit more so I can understand what the F is wrong with it! Like "but it doesn't "look" good" Doesn't really tell me anything about what is wrong with it!
Click to expand...

'Look' would suggest the layout or formatting of your story, at least that's what I'd presume... :/
 
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TheDanish

TheDanish

TheDanish

Level 9
Joined
Apr 20, 2008
Messages
125
WIP:

Wet snow was the worst of its kind, Oscus mused silently. It was heavy, first of all. Made treks like this one harder than they had to be. He could deal with it, though, if it wasn’t for the damp. The damp was even worse. Got into your leathers, through your gloves, froze your fingers. Made it hard to grip an axe, or even focus right. Sapped the strength right out of you. Fatigue and cramped muscles Oscus could ignore, marches day and night he could slog through with little more than curses and complaints. The cold, though, doesn’t give a damn how strong you are. Doesn’t care where your place is in life. Big men and small men, farmers and scholars, they’re all equal before Father Winter.

And it wasn’t even winter yet.

Oscus clenched and unclenched his left fist, trying to get the blood flowing. He could hardly feel his other hand, but it was busy balancing his axe over one shoulder. This wasn’t the time to chain his weapon just so he could squeeze another pitiful ounce of comfort into his uncomfortable world. That would be death. War, like the cold, wasn’t forgiving. Stack them together and life becomes a hellhole. A moment off guard could mean a sword in your back, or an arrow through a lung.

He trudged through the ankle-deep snow and stooped under a low-hanging pine branch, but something caught in his hair anyway. He reached up and plucked a stick from his scalp, bringing a few brown strands with it. Gave his fingers something to do, at least. He flicked the twig away without a second thought and turned round, peering into the sparse forest, making sure his party was still with him.

One of the soldiers came first. He wasn’t quite as tall as Oscus, so he didn’t have to duck the branch. His cheeks and nose were red under his poorly-fitting steel cap, and he didn’t look much happier than Oscus felt. Seemed older, too. The man probably had more war experience than he did, but Oscus was the one who knew the area. That was why the Imperial Divinity had chosen him to lead. He knew the foothills around the base of the Spinal Mountains better than anyone, so it was his task to escort two Divinity priests to Ulms.

Some job for a Sword of the Divinity. He was supposed to be the martial arm of the church, a soldier of the Heavens, not some party leader plodding through land that could very well harbor enemy scouts. Wasn’t like he was afraid, though. Not at all. He just preferred his usual task of hunting bandits on the outskirts of town. They didn’t offer much of a challenge, and his pay was decent enough. Bought him a room, meals, and a couple nights a week at the local whorehouse, all for little more than killing half-starved thieves that no one would miss.

“Oscus! Where do you think we are?” Macard, one of priests, emerged from behind some brush. It was a wonder he hadn’t spotted the holyman sooner, given his ludicrously overblown fur coat and gleaming silver circlet. The second priest, Jorn, followed up close behind, his coat only slightly less boisterous and circlet slightly less polished. His shining bald head, though, more than made up for what his attire lacked. If there were any patrols nearby, it was a wonder that mirror of a skull didn’t attract them with reflected sunlight. Praise be to the Heavens indeed.

Oscus looked up to the sky and wrinkled his brow. He didn’t have a damn idea where they were, to be honest. At ground level the trees were thin enough, but the green canopy overhead filtered out a good bit of the sun.
 

Coolty44

Coolty44

Coolty44

Level 12
Joined
Dec 10, 2008
Messages
850
Just typed up what I could remeber, its about 446 words long and I think I can sum it up in 5000 words

It was 1945, two days before the atomic bombs would bring an end to World War Two. With victory around the corner, my final mission was guaranteed to be forgotten. Too bad too, it cleared the way for the bomb.

It was a nice day, or at least the nicest it could get on an aircraft carrier preparing a raid on Japan. I, Sargent James Watt, was getting a briefed with a few other people about were we were being dropped off at to join the ground forces advance on the Japanese islands. After that was over, I was called off to the side and into a private room, were I was greeted by a small man with funny glasses. He had a document in his hands that looked rather important, and I assumed the worst. He gestured over to a chair. “Sit down, have a break, you must be rather tired”. “Rather stay standing” I replied. Guess he never dealt with someone who has seen the front lines before, since he looked a little offended. “Well, then” he continued “I just received new information regarding your latest deployment, and you will be coming to us to Japan to assist in the raid”. I was very impressed with that statement. “I'm not air force, why would I join and air raid?”. He must've sensed my growing anger, because he started to back off a little. “The Generals want you and a few other men to parachute in during the raid and do as much damage to Japanese defences as possible. They aren't sure what to expect if they decide to send in a full force of troops or airdrop platoons in......”

Apparently, my opinion doesn't matter, because we made my original stop, but only 30 of 35 of use got off. The rest were selected for the “Special Operations” mission. I was later given a much shorter brief that told me all the things I would need for the mission. Apparently, I we all get 1000 bullets, a stander ed M1A1 Thompson and we were to all share a non-military motorboat the ship engineers made out of bed planks and a lifeboat motor. The original parachute plan got scrapped after the pilots all agreed that they didn't want dead people with them.

If the day got any better, it might as well rain lava, because none of us were expected to make it out alive. The ships crew decided it was best not to commune with “the dead men walking”, because we were all voted out of our rooms and had to fend for ourselves in cramped hallways.
 

WhitePhoenix

WhitePhoenix

WhitePhoenix

Level 7
Joined
May 3, 2007
Messages
210

Quote:
the reds of their lives painting the skies. . .

not "the red of their lives" ?
Click to expand...

Was trying to create an imagery of a blood red sky, red being the blood of "their". Of course doesn't mean I succeded. Not sure if I liked singular or plural though, undecided.

Quote:
Every man whipped their faces as they stared onward

not "Each man whipped his face as he stared onward" ?
Click to expand...

I agree with you here, the latter is far less rythmical.

Quote:
His helmet fell off after I mowed him down, it was blonde, his face squared at the end

The helmet was blonde, or the soldier? If it's the soldier, then he was blonde. I imagine it was his hair, so "His helmet fell off after I mowed him down, his hair was blonde, his face squared at the end" should be it ?
Click to expand...

Nice catch, surprised I missed that when i proofread.

Quote:
Well they weren’t dries now

Not "Well they weren’t dry now" ?
Click to expand...

This one is deliberate. It's referencing the beginning.

Quote:
he has that sad kind of face

The rest of the paragraph is in the past tense, ("we scrambled", "the idiots charged", "I killed one", "I got over the hideousness") so switching to present again sounds a little funny, maybe it's just me though :)
Click to expand...

Nay I agree. Haven't spent a whole lot of time on this, I rushed it so I would meet the WIP deadline


@Fussiler1, I thought the theme was just about or pertaining to war in general? I'm not writing from personal, or even third person experience or anything like that. I guess i'll continue with it if it goes against the rules or not at this point though since I have the story line in my head.
 

Fussiler1

Fussiler1

Fussiler1

Level 19
Joined
Mar 16, 2009
Messages
3,681
WhitePhoenix said:
@Fussiler1, I thought the theme was just about or pertaining to war in general? I'm not writing from personal, or even third person experience or anything like that. I guess i'll continue with it if it goes against the rules or not at this point though since I have the story line in my head.
Click to expand...

You're right, I guess, but I thought it Story Contests were usually about fantasy. Nice WiP, by the way.
 

Ghoulrush

Ghoulrush

Ghoulrush

Level 6
Joined
Feb 5, 2008
Messages
129
There's no harm giving criticism now, Vengeancekael. After all, these are WIPs, not the final products.

Perhaps it would be a good opportunity to refine your judging abilities.
 
Last edited:

Tharkas

Tharkas

Tharkas

Level 5
Joined
Mar 26, 2010
Messages
144
Well, I started to write a bit late, so my WIP is just 725 words long even through it's the limit date for the first WIP. It's just a WIP, so surely I'll cut or change some parts and I'll pass a double check over the whole text's grammar when it's finished. Critics are appreciated, bad or good ones.
If it's not clear, it's set in a futuristic world with some mystical touches.


"The inner mechanism of a clock is a system of incredible complexity where every part depends completely of the rest of the system. If one single gear breaks, the entire system crumbles and the clock fails. But, must a gear feel regret for the responsibility put on him? No, the gear must feel grateful, thankful that it has been given such a fate, for when the gear is forged from the metal and while it's being worked to fit with the rest of the clock, it has no more reason in the universe than its own existence. I'm a gear. I'm a servant that carry the responsibility for the continuity of the clock's motion. I carry the sins of the rest of the gears, and if I fail, the entire clock fails. You've battled hard until this day, you're stronger, you're transformed like the metal is transformed into a gear, and now that you're ready to fit into the clock, your reward awaits you behind this door. Feel honored, for soon you'll become gears, not only in flesh and bone but in soul too, and will hold the immense honor that I hold.”
-High Clockmaker Randius' speech to the new recruits of the GEARS army at the main temple of planed Iridnia.

Jeremiah Thompson woke up. At first he felt strange and disoriented, but soon he realized where he was, and fear overwhelmed him. He was inside his EX-Armor, but it was shut down. As a war veteran, Jeremiah should have been able to walk at least one hundred meters carrying his complete armor without using its movement support systems but he couldn't feel his legs. He knew that he had a few bones broken, but he couldn't feel them thanks to the nano-machines of his bloodstream, which were in charge of healing both his internal and external injuries as of cutting his nerve connections acting as painkillers. He heard lots of stories like that: soldiers trapped into their armors without power, left to die of dehydration and starvation, or maybe boiled under the sun or drowned by the rising tide.
He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. He focused his mind in the medium implant of his neck, where he could feel the connections between his cerebellum and the EX-Armor. The link seemed to be intact. He couldn't remember what happened, but the same impact that shut off his armor must had stunned him as well, as he couldn't concentrate enough to establish the direct connection between his brain and the armor's main computer, an action that should be automatic at most after all the training and fights he survived with his armor.
“You're going to die”, echoed the voices of his past from the back of his mind, “You're going to die and reunite with us all in hell”. “I don't believe in any hell”, he answered, “And you're not even real. You're just my remorse trying to take over my mind and make me panic”. “You know that we are much more than that, you're a psychic, we are the hatred and fear you felt in our minds while you were killing us. You killed us.”, responded the voices. “You killed me, Jeremiah, don't dare to forget it”, resonated a female voice. He knew that if he kept talking to these voices he would slowly descend into madness, so he resorted to his psychic training and shut down his subconscious mind. With that, the voices stopped, but also did his emotions and his instincts, leaving a sea of pure logic. If he stayed in that state for too long, he would become a true psychopath unable to recover his old self, but it was just what he needed in that moment.
After a few tries, he managed to reactivate the life support systems of the armors, stopping the suffocation that he was starting to experiment and allowing him to breath better. He could feel the fresh sensation of the filtered air crossing through his brain and he released his emotions. The fear was gone and so were the voices, both replaced by hope. With his mind clear he managed to turn on all the systems of the armor and slowly started to stand up despite his broken bones using the hydraulic movement system of the armor.

Thanks in advance for any critics. (Constructive critics only, plz).
 

Ghoulrush

Ghoulrush

Ghoulrush

Level 6
Joined
Feb 5, 2008
Messages
129
Here is my first WIP:

Chairs and Tables had been piled onto the door, crammed together in order to form a sturdy barricade. Craig’s men continued to search the tavern for any additional objects which could be added to the makeshift wall. Craig himself stood in the middle of the room, keeping a commanding presence over his subordinates. Although his eyes watched over the unfolding preparations, his mind was in a distant place. He was concerned about his impending fate, still adjusting to the reality of his current plan.

“Captain, by the sound of it, the orcs are almost upon us,” Conner said with a sense of urgency in his voice. Craig looked at him and nodded. All of the crewmembers were now idle, anxiously looking at him for further orders. Craig was no longer thinking about future affairs, but now fully devoted to the present situation. And it was indeed a grim situation.

“Alright men… We’re up against the orcs now… Ready your guns and face the door. When they come through, fill them with lead.” Craig spoke with a commanding tone, ensuring that his men wouldn’t fall out of line during a time like this. All of them wielded their flintlocks, aiming towards the door. He made sure that they were prepared, not yet grabbing his own pistol.

He then noticed a sound coming from outside the tavern, a sound which would frighten many. It was the sound of looting, of pillaging. Orc battle cries echoed through town, painting mental images of savage brutes interested in nothing but blood and killing. However, the sounds of destruction were accompanied by a low whining coming from within the tavern. Craig looked around at saw Baird sitting on a barstool, groaning about his rotten luck. He had almost forgotten about the bastard, and would no longer tolerate his attitude.

“Baird, get on your feet now!” Craig said, shouting at him.

“What’s the fucking point?” Baird replied.

Craig walked up to him and took out his pistol. He flipped it around so that it served as a club, and started to repeatedly beat Baird upside the head with it. Baird grunted in pain, and tried to cover his head before being knocked off the stool. Blood ran down his head, and he laid there in agony.

At that moment, a loud noise rang throughout the tavern. Craig turned around to face the door, now holding his flintlock properly. As he walked towards the entrance, it violently shook once more. The banging noise was very loud, and each repetition caused chairs and tables to topple down from the barricade. Craig pointed his pistol towards the door, waiting for a monster to come through. Suddenly, two sharp axes cut through the door and were pulled back, leaving open marks in the wood. Craig shot into one of the holes, and several of his men did the same as new openings were made by the axes. As the sound of gunfire diminished, the cries of orcs could be heard. It was the first one that Craig had ever killed, and it was much easier than he had initially imagined.

The axes ceased, for their owners had been swiftly subdued with a barrage of bullets. Craig put the empty pistol back in its holster and pulled out his second flintlock from his right side. Such tactics were necessary, for flintlock pistols took much precious time to reload. Craig aimed his fresh pistol at the door, just as it was finally breached.

A large orc came hurdling through the barricade, breaking the door open and smashing through the wall of chairs and tables. He was immediately filled with several bullets, collapsing right where he broke through. After the entrance was taken, a wave of orcs charged into the tavern. The sounds of gunshots combined with the orc battle cries created a chaotic scene. The crewmembers made use of all loaded weapons they carried, mowing down the orcs with an overwhelming barrage of gunfire.

An orc charged through the door with an axe in each hand, and was promptly executed by Craig. With no loaded pistols left, Craig took out his cutlass and prepared to face the orcs in close combat.

“Cutlasses out! No time to reload!” Craig said to his men while there was a brief pause in the influx of attackers. All of the crewmembers took out their melee weapons, not all of which were swords. Brian carried a boarding axe, and some less familiar men had been forced to arm themselves with short daggers and dirks. All of them became more nervous at this point, for it was easier to stand strong against orcs when granted the luxury of gunpowder.
 
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CYrusmaster

CYrusmaster

CYrusmaster

Level 2
Joined
Sep 11, 2009
Messages
29
Ok, so i didnt read all the posts, theres pretty much. But il try to work out 1k words for tomorrow. Is that fine? Because its late right now and i am going to bed.
 

Nitrious

Nitrious

Nitrious

Level 2
Joined
May 30, 2008
Messages
27
Are applications still being accepted, because I asked several times and it hasn't been updated recently.
I already have a wip.
 

Lightskin

Lightskin

Lightskin

Level 15
Joined
Jan 27, 2007
Messages
948
I'd like to join, i have a WIP.


And so he was... standing with a bloody sword, exhaust, with the face painted, the colors of freedom. With victory on his rear.

Stirling, September 11th, 1297.
The English troops were shown atop the hill, ready to fight, ready to crush as many Scottish as it would be possible. Instead, the people of Scotland was ready to scape to home, so they could live, fighting was losing it's sence. The soldiers were pretty sure it was a great lost.
Then, the mighty Sir came within the multitude of barbaric men. It was easy to denote his stature, about three meters from head to heels.
The army was on command of Gallance Brahn, an expert battle master. Looking around, the Sir asked to Gallance, "What is this? are you retreating?" "There's no possible victory here, the soldiers refuse to fight". He walked a few steps away from Gallance's position and from a prolonged silence, he asked; "Is this an army!?" while walking around the front of the army's formation. None answered, a silence kept. "Do you really think an army is led by fear!?" asked again. "We have no fear!" said a soldier from the mass. "So you are telling me to retreat is not to fear" said the Great, "This battle is lost, we are not going to fight. If we retreat we will live." said another soldier. "For some time, but yes. If you men, fight, you may die. But, if you don't fight, you will want to come back in time and fight this battle, you might understand me in a couple of years, when the tyranny rape our women, kill our children and destroy our homeland. Is that what you want? You want Edward to burn your home? You want your family's death? Is that what you really want?" a short silence was made after the Sir's word. "If we keep together we can make it, because they might take our lives, but the may NEVER TAKE OUR FREEDOM!" The multitude of soldiers were driven into a reflex point, and a few seconds after the Sir's word, every single soldier started to clash their weapons and shout in a rush. "And for so i say, stand up, take up you sword and shield and FIGHT FOR OUR FREEDOM!!" shouted with huge strength the great Sir of Scotland.
The multitude of barbarians kept getting each time more aggressive and more likely to fight. Now the battle had recovered the cause.
It was possible to see the large English armies marching from the front, to engage the Scottish army in the river, the river of Stirling. Each passing second was another remember of English tyranny, each second was another reason to crush them.
The Scottish army was angry and enraged, they remembered that none would free them from England else themselves. Now, the English men were close, too close. The Scottish made haste into positioning in the bridge. Shield on the shoulder and the sword ready to slice.

 
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TwistedImage

TwistedImage

TwistedImage

Level 13
Joined
Oct 31, 2009
Messages
1,481
^

Uncapitalized Is.

Inability to discern between he's and his.

General spelling mistakes.

Upside down question- and exclamation marks. Wtf? This isn't Spanish.

-- tags around post-quote "speech?"

In conclusion, do NOT write in English if you don't grasp the basics. Stick to your Spanish.
 
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